They made their way to the other side of the woods. They walked for hours to make it there. Pipi stopped many times, telling stories of mistreated Indians removed from their homeland. Mike read stories in his schoolbooks and wondered if his grandfather referred to something called the Trail of Tears. He wanted to ask, but had more pressing problems. Mike’s feet were killing him. If the long march was anything like this, he wanted no part of it.
For the last mile, they stopped to change into traditional Seminole dress. Mike hated that more than the endless sad stories and marching. His aching feet felt the hard Earth through the moccasins. Every pebble felt like a knife plunged into his spine. Surprisingly, he was happy his grandfather talked, it provided a much-needed distraction. It helped greatly.
Along the way, Pipi pointed out and named different trees. He went on to name bushes, grass, and others. Each had three Indian names. Mike listened to keep his thoughts off his painful feet. Ahead, he saw the camp and gained confidence seeing his journey’s end. He sped to his grandfather, determined to walk the last few feet at his side. With his first kill, he was a man and wanted them all to know. His chest puffed out as he approached a group of men surrounding a campfire. They were all dark skinned like his grandfather.
Three men rose to greet them. All dressed in similar outfits. They wore Native American moccasins on their feet with light-brown shirt and pants. The first to greet them stood six feet tall. The man’s wardrobe was similar to the others, only the color wasn’t the same. The man wore a distinctive shirt with reds, blues, and whites. Mike looked at the huge hand the man extended. It was a mesh of calluses and cuts. To shake that hand might be a messy proposition; he had a cut around his pinky that bled.
“Shadow,” said the big man.
“Dancing Bear,” said Pipi, shaking the man’s hand.
Mike put his head down like his mother taught him. She said dignified people didn’t laugh at the unfortunate names mothers gave their young.
“Who is this?” asked Dancing Bear.
“This is my grandson. Are the spirits talking tonight?”
“Yes,” said Dancing Bear. “Sit with us.”
Pipi motioned for Mike to sit next to him with the others. They shook hands and all gazed into the flames in silence. Mike found it strange, but did as the others. He had no idea what he was looking for and felt strange at the nonsense of these old men. He was glad to rest his feet and hoped they gazed long enough to bring massive release to his joints.
Mike stole a drink from his canteen while the others chanted around the campfire.
Before long, Dancing Bear stopped. He took a swig from a canteen and passed it to Pipi. Mike sat next to his grandfather and smelled the concoction. Oh no, it was the stuff he forced down last night. Not again!
“The rest is for you, my son. Drink it all,” said Pipi.
Mike put the canteen to his lips and forced down half.
“Drink it all.”
It took great effort to comply. Juju drink, yeah right, more than likely, that is the hard stuff. Mike could be wrong and allowed for it. Being a curious youngster, more than once he found his father’s secret stash and with a friend, he smoked marijuana and swallowed whiskey. This home-brewed version was strong. Mike braced and with a long gulp, he swallowed the rest and passed the empty canteen to Pipi.
After the men chanted more, dizziness set in.
Mike didn’t like the way he felt. His head hurt. His vision blurred and for a time he swore he saw Dancing Bear throwing a white powder at him and the fire. Through a haze he saw blue flames dance above red ones. He saw a squirrel dancing on top of the highest flame. Mike had followed his grandfather’s orders and not revealed that his so-called animal spirit was a pudgy little squirrel.
How could he be sure of that? How could he be sure of anything he saw? Mike saw drunks passed out on the beach and sleeping on the streets of Miami. He laughed at the funny things they said and saw. Was he one now? If they saw nothing then how could he? Mike came to the conclusion they were illusions. Illusions from the powder thrown into the flames.
“Shadow,” said Dancing Bear. “Bring him forward.”
Bring me? I can walk. Mike tried to stand, but found his legs locked. Pipi and the man called Racing Wind helped him stand before Dancing Bear.
Racing Wind and Rising Tide painted his face with black-and-white pinstripes. Mike thought it strange and tried resisting. For some reason, he couldn’t move. Fearing bewitchment by their chants, he desperately tried moving to no avail. Instead of feeling panic, he felt heavy, as if he could fall asleep for a week. Was something wrong? When the men finished, Dancing Bear sprinkled water over his head.
“Look into the flames and learn your spirit name,” said Dancing Bear.
The men chanted and moved around the flames in a circle. Mike thought it funny, like in the old Westerns he would sneak and watch before his mother came and changed the channel. He hadn’t seen one since he was six, but he remembered them and best he could tell they saw them as well.
Mike looked into the flames. His haze weakened, still he didn’t believe. What name would this old man give him? He went over their names: Dancing Bear, Racing Wind, Rising Tide. God, please don’t let them give me one of their crazy Indian names. Please, please, please, please, please!
“I see it!” Dancing Bear scared him by stopping in front of him.
Mike craned his head to look pass him into the flames, searching desperately.
“You shall be called . . .” Dancing Bear danced to the far side of the campfire and then stopped to stare at the little boy.
Please, please, please, please, please!
Dancing Bear stretched arms to Heaven.
“Baton of Justice!
“What?” he thought it strange. “What did he say, Grandfather?”
“Baton of Justice, my son. That shall be your name.”
“All that? How can I be called all that?” he whispered. “That’s crazy. Batton, what the hell is a batton?”
“Baton, my son, not Batton. You shall be called Baton, it is a hammer. A hammer is an important tool, one that you cannot build without. It means your destiny is to nail down that which might fly away and be lost forever.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, my son. Fate wrote your destiny long ago. We will count on you to do good things for your people.”
Mike smiled, though he knew his grandfather was pulling his leg. How can a kid do all that?
Chapter Seven: Arrival