Chapter One
It was a beautiful sunny day, a rarity for this time of year in Southeastern Oklahoma; autumn in the Indian Territory was notoriously grey and bleak. Kyle and Tommy decided to spend the rest of their lunch hour outside. They exchanged a few playful taunts with other members of the football team as they strolled through the lunchroom.
When they opened the doors of the cafeteria, Tommy spotted Carl sitting by himself, one hand moving feverishly over a sketchpad. Carl was a Rez Kid and those kids usually hung out together. Odd that Carl wasn't running with his pack. Curiosity got the best of him and he went to see why Carl was sitting alone.
"Hey! Where you going, Tommy?" Kyle objected when his friend suddenly switched directions.
"I want to see what he's up to," Tommy replied with a mischievous grin, pointing at Carl's hunched over figure.
"What for?" Kyle scrunched up his face. "He's a Rez kid. I don't give a shit what any of them are doing."
"What's it matter? Just shut up and come on." Tommy closed the gap between them and Carl at a brisk pace.
Tommy looked over his shoulder and snorted. Kyle clearly struggled to keep up. Being a good six inches shorter made his stride quite a bit smaller.
They stood behind Carl for thirty seconds or so, staring over his shoulder to see what he was drawing. Carl's long dark hair brushed against the pad as his pencil floated across the page.
"Whatcha got there?" Kyle's hand darted, passing only inches from Carl's face, pointing at the sketchpad.
Carl looked up, obviously startled to have a member of the varsity team standing over him. He leaned back to give them a better view of his drawing.
"Whoa, lemme see that!" Kyle extended his hand, wiggling his fingers in eager anticipation.
Carl held out the pad, looking at the two boys warily. "Why the sudden interest?"
"Can't a guy just want to appreciate the work of an artisan?" Tommy grabbed the pad before his friend could and admired the craftsmanship, turning the page at several angles as he nodded in approval.
The bottom half of the picture consisted of a storm cloud with tendrils that stretched and twisted throughout the page. The foremost figure was an image of man with his arms spread wide as if he were welcoming someone into his embrace. His arms bore the scars of many battles. He wore a laced-bone chest plate and buckskin britches tucked into calf-high moccasins. His face was decorated with war paint and filled with fury, but his eyes were the feature that stood out the most. They were void of pupils and the lines that stretched out around them suggested that they glowed. Feathers hung from his braids, seven in all. He held a peace pipe in one hand and a tomahawk in the other. Blood dripped from the pipe, but the tomahawk was clean and dry.
Behind the specter, an army of Indian warriors rode on horseback. Instead of spears, they carried lightning bolts. The warriors were in various stages of an attack. It was a dizzying display of form and motion as the army attacked an unseen enemy.
"All kidding aside, this is great work, Carl. They look almost real." Tommy handed the drawing back to Carl.
"Thanks, I put a lot of work into this one."
"What the hell are they?" Tommy squinted as he leaned forward to study the picture once more.
"They are the Nunne'hi; warriors from the spirit realm. They used to protect peace-loving tribes from harm. It is said they were great fighters who only championed those who they found worthy."
Tommy raised an eyebrow. "So you believe these things are real?"
"I would like to think so. There are a lot of strange things I've heard from my tribe. Most of them are stories that people swear are real. The Nunne'hi myths are my favorite though."
"And they only stick up for the helpless?" Kyle asked.
"They protect the innocent and the pure of heart, but mostly they protect those who both need and believe in them."
"So let me get this straight. They live in some ghost realm and only come out when they're needed?" Tommy waited for Carl to nod his agreement before he continued. "It seems like they've been asleep at the wheel if you ask me."
"Why do you say that?" Carl's brows furrowed.
"Your people have been put through an awful lot that an army of angry ghosts could've prevented," Tommy replied with a laugh.
"Who's to say they didn't help us? We are still alive, after all." Carl flipped the sketchpad shut.
"If you call that living."
"What?" Carl turned on him sharply.
"Where are they now? Most Indian tribes, peace loving or not, are disappearing. They're growing smaller by the day," Tommy replied, looking at Kyle for support.
"I wouldn't say it was by the day," Carl interjected. "We have children born every year."
"I'm sure you do, but that's not what I'm talking about. There's no fucking way you can tell me there are as many people coming into the Rez as there are leaving."
"What's your point?"
"The white man has found a new way to get rid of you. You guys are being bred out." Tommy snickered, causing Kyle to laugh at his audacity.
Anger burned in Carl's expression. "Well, that's a pretty shitty thing to say."
"I'm not trying to be hateful; I'm just telling it like it is. There isn't anything any one of us sitting here can do about it. Let's look at the facts. You're out numbered and outdated. How many people have left the Rez just since you can remember? How many of them married people of other races?"
"He's talkin' to you, Carl. Ain't no need to be rude," Kyle said with a mirthless laugh after a few seconds of silence.
"There's nothing to talk about. This is a small community, you guys know almost as fast as I do when someone moves away from Red River. Even if they do marry out of race, it doesn't mean they don't carry their heritage with them and pass it on to their children," Carl said without looking up.
"There's no reason to get all sensitive about it." Tommy sat down next to him. "I'm not telling you anything you don't already know."
"Tell us more about your nunya thingies. They live in heaven and only show up to fuck with your enemies?" Kyle asked, sitting on the other side of Carl.
"We don't associate them with heaven ... or hell, for that matter. Neither of those places was ever heard of when these stories were born." Carl looked down at his pad, avoiding both of their stares.
"Then where do they live?" Tommy wondered how spirit creatures could live anywhere else.
"It is said they live in invisible townhouses, right here on the plains."
"Yeah, right," he snorted. "You people lived in teepees before we came along. You can't tell me they actually had townhouses back then."
"It's not the same thing. It's like a Council House, a place to gather and have ceremonies, but the townhouses of the Nunne'hi were even more amazing.
"Why?"
"Well, for one, their houses are underground, hidden under giant mounds. They're also full of maidens and their hearths always have meat in them. On quiet evenings, you can sometimes hear the drums from their parties. They celebrate our lives, even in the spirit realm. They throw grand parties to mark special occasions. They dance, they laugh, they--"
"They throw giant keggers," Tommy finished the sentence with a laugh. "Giant drum beating, girl chasing, party till you puke keggers."
"Hey, I betcha nobody parties like an invisible town full of ghosts," Kyle added gleefully.
"Yeah, something like that." Carl shook his head. "There's the bell. You guys are going to be late for class."
"It's almost too nice to be indoors." Tommy took off his letterman's jacket and tucked it under his arm.
"Aren't you coming?" Kyle looked down at Carl as he stood up and knocked the dust from the back of his jeans.
"No, I think I am done with school for the day," Carl said, gathering up his stuff. "Tommy's right; it is too nice to be inside."
"Mr. Geary's gonna be pissed. You know how he gets when we cut class," Tommy called over his shoulder without slowing their pace across the quad.
"I think he can manage to teach shop without me for a day." Carl laughed nervously, wondering if they would tell the teacher he was ditching.
He cast another look over his shoulder as the boys walked away, half expecting to see them exchanging money over some private wager. It was the only reason he could think of for their unexpected visit. The only time he could remember any of the varsity boys paying him any attention was to dish out some form of petty torment: A trip in the hall, a tray knocked from his hands in the lunchroom, spit-wads shot across the classroom, or any number of other juvenile pranks to elicit the laughter of their friends.
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