---

Randy was leaning against the wall when Brant finished his lesson and came out of Hilton's studio.

"Want to go with me this weekend?"

"Sure. Where're we going?"

"Dad wants me to check out our cabin in the mountains. We can leave after classes on Friday and come back Sunday evening."

"Want me to bring anything?"

"Just yourself. Wear jeans and hiking boots and bring a heavy jacket. It's rough up there and it gets pretty cold at night this time of year. It'll save time if you get your stuff together so I can pack the Jeep Thursday night."

When Mr. Nowell cut their lesson a bit short, Brant and Randy were out of the door before the last bell ceased ringing. At the house, Randy let Brant out then pulled the Mercedes into one of the stalls of the carriage house and backed a battered open Jeep from another. The husky jumped in the back as Brant climbed in.

"Dammit knows where we're going the minute he hears the Jeep start. He loves it up there."

The sun was setting by the time Randy turned off the dirt road onto an ill-defined track in the thick woods. He shifted into low gear and slowed until they were barely moving, even so, they were tossed about uncomfortably.

"How come there isn't a better road than this?" Brant asked.

"Keeps anybody from knowing there's a house up here. The only other place near is back on the road." Steering by instinct, he looked at Brant. "Forget all you know about things, buddy; you're in my territory now. This is the Quallah Boundry - Indian land. The law is Indian and no unaka can own property here."

"Then how'd your dad get a place?"

"He didn't. It's mine. It belonged to my mother and passed on to me when she died. All the land is owned by the tribe and leased to members of the clans. The lease can be inherited, which is how I got it. At least I got one good deal by being Indian."

Bushy tail wagging furiously, Dammit scrambled behind them to keep his balance as the Jeep crawled up an incline so steep that Brant held tightly to the seat, thinking the Jeep might tip over backwards. Suddenly it pitched forward and leveled out. When he let go the breath he'd been holding, Randy heard him and grinned. "Now you know why we use the Jeep to come up here."

In the scant light remaining, Brant could see the outline of a log cabin, but Randy drove past to a small stone building, stopping so that the headlights were shining directly on the door. Dammit jumped from the Jeep and ran through the small clearing, sniffing attentively.

When Randy unlocked the door and disappeared inside, Brant followed out of curiosity to see him bent over a large iron wheel which he was turning slowly. A whirring increased in volume and a light bulb overhead began to glow, reaching full brightness. Randy looked with satisfaction at a couple of meters mounted on the wall beside a large black box which hummed loudly. "Okay. Now we have lights."

Brant looked at the two units connected by three moving belts. "What's all that?"

"Turbine and generator. I had to open the valve to the turbine."

"What makes it go?"

Randy pointed to a large pipe connected to the valve. "Water from the stream."

"Why have all this?"

"Have to. The power lines are a couple of miles down on the main road. It would cost too much to run 'em up here. The old man was going to use a gasoline generator, but he found this instead, and since there's a little waterfall just up stream, this is simpler and cheaper. I mean there's nothing to go wrong unless the belts break or the intake clogs up." He pointed to the black box. "Once in a while the inverter screws up, but it's just for the stereo, the microwave, and the computer. I guess I'd better clean the filter on the penstock while we're here, then I won't have to when we come back next time. Let's go."

Randy drove back to the cabin and climbed out. Brant stopped in the doorway and looked around the large single room. At one end a counter separated the open kitchen from the living space. The remaining space next to the kitchen was walled off for a small bath. At the opposite end a large stone fireplace dominated the wall. A thick Indian rug centered a grouping of worn comfortable furniture. A stairway against the back wall led up to a partitioned sleeping loft over the kitchen and bath.

"This is great. I'd like to live here," Brant said, realizing the snug cabin would easily have fit into the reception room of Randy's home.

"The folks did for a couple of years while dad was doing research and writing his dissertation. They built here because it was isolated and he could work without interruption. Besides, nobody else wanted the land." Randy picked up a large battery lantern and stopped to open the top drawer of a small chest by the door. He took out a pistol which he checked then pushed into the waist band of his jeans. "Stay here. I'll be back in about ten minutes."

Brant carried in their bags, dropping them by the stairs, then carried in the box of tinned goods and the cooler Randy had brought from home. The silence pressed in until he went to stand on the porch. Frogs croaked loudly somewhere nearby. He looked anxiously into the darkness until he finally saw the beam of light coming toward him.

"Sorry to leave you like that, but the path is rough."

"Where'd you go?"

"To turn on the water."

"Why'd you take the pistol?" Brant asked as Randy replaced it in the drawer.

"Sometimes a snake gets in the pumphouse. It's a little cool for them to be out yet, but I like to have it, just in case. Snakes are sacred to some Indians, but I've got the unaka hang-up about 'em."

With the darkness, the damp chill had turned colder. Randy placed a couple of small logs on the andirons and laid a few thick splinters beneath. Taking a sliver of wood, he held his cigarette lighter to the end. Flames flashed upward with a sputtering sound. He thrust it under the other fragments and set the firescreen in place. The dry logs caught quickly, throwing out a comforting warmth.

Brant watched in awe. "I never saw wood burn quick as that."

Randy grinned. "Fat pine. Doesn't take much to start a good fire."

"What's fat pine?"

"The best comes from a pine tree that's been killed by lightning, but it's hard to find. This came from an old house that was being torn down. If heart pine stays dry for years, the rosin in the wood dries hard. It's almost like gas when you light it."

Dammit flung himself down on the hearth, while Randy raced lightly up the stairs with their bags. He returned in a few moments clad in a breech-clout and moccasins, carrying a small hand-woven Indian rug of earth colors which he spread before the hearth. He opened a small cabinet beside the fireplace and switched on a compact stereo unit, placing a cassette in the tape player. Without once looking at Brant, he dropped cross-legged to the rug and stared fixedly into the flames. His long fingers fondled a small intricately decorated deerskin pouch hanging from a leather thong around his neck. Occasionally he chanted quietly in Cherokee to the music, his harsh voice almost clear.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa watching, Brant felt a total stranger for Randy, dressed as he was with his long hair flowing freely about his shoulders and singing in another language, had become unrecognizable. He melded naturally into the rustic cabin and wooded surroundings.

Suddenly Randy's eyes became fixed, his face blank, devoid of all expression. He looked no more alive to Brant than the mannequin in his father's study. Though it was only ten minutes or so, time stopped for Brant until animation returned. Randy sprang up, his expression one of complete relaxation and peace. He switched off the music and looked at Brant. "Wado."

"Hunh?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not interrupting my meditation. I'm Indian, now."

"I thought you were."

"No. I mean ... Hell, you couldn't understand, even if I could explain it. It's something I have to do to get myself free of the unaka world. It ..." his voice trailed off. He shrugged. Even were he so inclined, there was no way could he explain being in his spirit body to someone who had not had the same experience. He picked up the rug, carried it to the loft, and folded it into the old trunk. When he came back down, he sat on the sofa next to Brant.

"What happens when you're meditating?"

"Why?"

"For a while you looked almost like you were dead."

"It's just something that happens when an Indian gets deep in his meditation, it's no big deal. Did you like the tape?"

"What was it?"

"Some of our traditional music for quiet times, like meditation or prayers."

"The flute had a kind of hollow sound."

"It was an Indian flute. Have you ever seen a recorder?"

"Sure. I have one."

"You play the recorder?"

"Don't you mean a tape recorder?"

"No, I'm talking about the instrument. It's like a flute except it's made of pear wood and you blow in the end. I guess it's being wood that gives it the hollow sound which is great for our music since most of it's in a minor key. I tried to find out something about it one time, but nobody seemed to know much about how it originated. It's almost like some oriental music." He grinned at Brant. "Some anthropologists believe our people originally came across an ice bridge from Siberia to Alaska and migrated further south. I don't buy it, but it would explain our music."

"I thought Indians used drums."

"We do for dancing and some songs, and there's rattles for some of the dances, too. They're the traditional instruments for our music."

"What's that?" Brant pointed to the decorated pouch still around Randy's neck.

Randy jumped up. "No!"

Brant's hand dropped, his expression of animated curiosity faded into one of disbelief.

Randy instantly regretted his sharpness. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell, but I was afraid you might touch it. It's a sacred thing for me. If anyone else touches it, the medicine loses its power because it would be contaminated."

"Even like when we hug?"

"No, that would be okay. It's just if you were to handle it a lot or tried to open it."

"I won't. I just wondered what it is."

"Maybe I'll tell you sometime. Agiyosi."

Brant followed him into the kitchen. After setting the table, he sat watching Randy begin their dinner. When he turned to open the fridge, Randy stopped and examined the two glazed ceramic magnets on the door. On the face of one plaque was the head of an Indian wearing a feathered headdress. Below was the caption: Around this camp, there's only one chief. Randy glanced over to see Brant's grin. "Well?"

"Why not? You said it's your place, so I figured you're the chief."

"The old man would probably feel different about that." He read the second, a Cherokee blessing: May the warm wind of heaven blow softly on this home, and the Great Spirit bless all who enter here. "I really like this. I've heard my grandfather say this blessing. Where'd you find them?"

"I was at the mall the other day. When I saw them, they reminded me of you, so I had to get them. After you told me about coming up here, I figured this was where they belonged."

Randy smiled. "Thanks."

He threw a couple of steaks on the gas grill while Brant began to make the salad. Intuition caused Brant to look up. A short, stocky, dark-skinned Indian boy glowered suspiciously from the cabin door. Dammit rubbed against his legs, tail wagging. He had not made a sound at the boy's entry.

"Sequoyah?"

Randy stepped back to see. "Tojihu, Tommy." He greeted, and continued to speak in Cherokee as he crossed the room. He jerked his head once in Brant's direction and said a few more words to which the boy replied shortly, then nodded and vanished silently.

"Tommy Ross," Randy explained when he came back to the kitchen. "He heard the Jeep when we came up. He keeps an eye on the place for me."

"Scared me when I saw him. Why didn't Dammit bark?"

"He never barks when Tommy comes up." Randy grinned. "We never even know Tommy's around until we see him. He's so quiet he can even sneak up on Dammit. I better warn you. Tommy doesn't like unakas, that's why he didn't speak English or stay. We get along because he's my clan, but he won't have anything to do with you."

"Are all Indians like that?"

Randy's face hardened. "Like what?"

"Unfriendly like him and like you are to most people."

"Look, how friendly do you think a guy's going to be when everybody treats you like shit? Besides, living out here away from everything makes them uncomfortable around people they don't know."

"I guess I never thought about it."

"Why should you? But at least you don't go around putting everybody else down just because they aren't like you. When we go home, I'll show you a video I've got so maybe you can understand why we're like we are."

"Which one?"

"Thunderheart. I can't watch it very often because it hurts too much. You'll see why. Now get with it. Agiyosi."

"Huh?"

"I'm hungry."

While they ate sitting before the fire, the husky's blue eyes watched their plates intently, ready to snatch any scraps of steak. Once the dishes were washed, they lay on the rug before the dying flames. Randy raised up on one elbow to look at Brant, whose eyes blinked to ward off sleep. He stroked the pale gold hair, still hardly able to believe that he shared his life with someone.

Brant turned toward him, the sheaf of hair falling back over his forehead. Randy brushed it aside, letting his fingers linger.

The jade-green eyes looked deeply into his. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Randy wrapped his arms around Brant and hugged him, caressing his back. Brant moaned with pleasure and returned the hug. His fingers moved across Randy's inner thigh, sensuously stroking upward.

"Watoli cries," Randy whispered as Brant's fingers fumbled with the tie of the breach-clout.

Randy lay back hugging Brant close, still feeling the trail of kisses down his body, the moist warmth of Brant's mouth. At last he whispered, "Is it always so good?"

"It is when someone loves you."

Desire drove Randy, his long fingers clumsy in their haste. One hand stroked the stump of Brant's leg and moved slowly upward.

Satiated, Brant lay beside Randy, raising his head to look into his friend's dark eyes. "Doesn't it bother you to touch my stump?"

"No way. It's part of you. I like you just like you are."

"Are you sure?"

"Why are you so uptight about a leg? That's why I rubbed it. It doesn't make any difference to me." Randy's face filled with concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No way. It really felt good. It should be massaged every day, but it's hard for me to do it."

"Tell me how and I'll do it."

As Randy's long fingers kneaded soft muscles, he looked intently into Brant's eyes. "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Having only one leg."

Brant searched his face, seeing only caring. "It throws you off balance at first, because of the loss of its weight. You have to learn how to balance all over again to walk with the leg or on crutches. The first time they let me go to the bathroom in the hospital, I almost fell in even though the nurse tried to hold me."

Randy snickered.

"I know it sounds stupid, but that's the way it is. I hit my stump right on the end. Jeez, did it hurt." He shrugged. "As for the rest, you've seen how it is, but you don't know what it's like to feel it still there sometimes and try to walk and fall flat on your face, or to feel stranded without these." He thumped a crutch. "Worst are the looks you get from little old ladies." His voice rose. "Hey, I'm still me."

Randy hugged him. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay if it's you and it feels good when you rub it. I just don't know how to tell you what it's like any more than you can tell me what it's like to be Indian, except to say how people treat you because of it. I don't even think about it now except when I'm using that piece of plastic shit. It's too tight because the muscles have built up, that's why it hurts. I use my crutches most of the time if I can."

"Can't they make one that doesn't hurt?"

"Sure." Anger erupted. "You heard the doctor say it needed refitting. I was supposed to get it adjusted a couple of times while my stump gets it's permanent shape, but the old man's too frigging stingy to even spring for that. I wouldn't say anything if he didn't try to make me wear it all the time, but damn it, I need a good one I can do things with and he thinks the one I've got should last. It was the cheapest thing he could find."

"How much did it cost?"

"About five thou."

Randy looked shocked. "That much for some plastic and a steel rod?"

"This one's supposed to be temporary. They told me at the rehab center just to use it until my stump got shaped and then get a good one. A really good one costs fifteen or more, but, hell, they've got you. I mean you either settle for crutches or pay what they want for a fake leg."

"That pisses me off."

"Why?"

"I think they're giving you a royal screwing, but mostly because I hate to see you hurt."

Brant squeezed his hand. "You make the pain go away. I thought nobody would want me after they cut it off. Jack was the only one didn't seem to care."

Randy sat up, pulling Brant up with him. "I want you any way I can get you. You're a sexy little beast."

"What's sexy about a one-legged guy?"

"It makes you different."

"Like I think you're a real stud partly because you're Indian?"

"Something like that. We're both different."

The fire died to embers before Randy got up to let Dammit out for a run and place the screen back in front of the fire. Once the husky returned to the hearth, Randy picked up a soundly sleeping Brant and carried him up the stairs to bed.

He awakened the next morning to a repetitious thudding and raised up to see Brant hopping toward the stairs. As he grasped the railing, he glanced back to see Randy watching him. "Did you carry me up last night?"

"Yeah. Need some help?"

"What does it look like?" Brant snarled.

Once Randy picked him up, he apologized. "I'm sorry. Next time, bring my crutches. It's a hell of a feeling being without 'em, 'specially when I gotta take a leak."

"I didn't even think." Randy replied contritely. "Don't feel stranded. I like to hold you."

While Randy showered, Brant stepped outside; the top step creaking under the pressure of his crutches. The cabin still lay in the shadow of the mountain blocking the early morning sun, the chilly air damp from the heavy dew. The weathered to silver-gray shingles on the cabin roof were spotted with moss and occasional clumps of gray lichen. Here and there branches of pale laurel and a few early wild azalea struck color against the deep blue-green of the firs, the lighter green of lacy hemlock. Sounds of morning kicked in - the gurgles of the stream, chirp of crickets in sunny spots, Dammit rustling through undergrowth, the high pitched peeps of a small frogs near the stream. He breathed deeply, the scent of the firs and pine perfuming the air, then stretched longly. A dragonfly hovered for a moment within arm's reach then darted away. He envied Randy's having such a retreat, to live so freely. When he heard Randy bang a pan in the kitchen and swear, he went back in.

"What's the matter?"

"I thought we had plenty of gas to carry us through the weekend, but I can't get the stove lit. We'll have to eat cereal and take a run into town to get the bottles filled, because the fridge is gas, too."

"Let me get my leg on and I'll help you."

They disconnected the two cylindrical tanks and loaded them in the back of the Jeep. Some fifteen minutes later they were on the main street of the town of Cherokee. Brant looked with interest at the tee-pees and other signs of Indian habitation.

"Gee, I never saw tee-pees before. Are they real?"

"Don't pay any attention to all that crap; it's just tourist bait. We've never lived much different from the unakas, but if we hadn't copied all this junk from the plains Indians, the tourists wouldn't believe we were real Indians, too."

"What's plains Indians?"

"The tribes out west. They're the colorful ones. You know, with the big feathered war bonnets, tipis, and all that stuff."

"What's tipis?"

"What you dumb-ass unakas call tee-pees."

Randy backed the Jeep into the service area of a propane dealer. A young Indian man came out of the office and greeted Randy in Cherokee, giving Brant a dubious look as he helped Randy strap the tanks on a handtruck and push it around the side of the building. Dammit sprawled across the driver's seat, his head resting on Brant's leg.

Even at this early hour, people were beginning to move along the street. Brant was suddenly aware that there were few white faces among them when several of the passing Indians looked at him curiously. Despite the presence of Dammit, he felt ill at ease, wishing Randy would return. He finally heard the crunching gravel and clank of the gas bottles. He watched Randy and the man lift the bottles in.

His expression did not escape Randy. Once they were on the road out of town, he looked at him searchingly. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing really. It ... I mean nearly everybody I saw while I was waiting for you was Indian."

"What did you expect? This is the reservation. I'll bet most of the ones you thought were white were Indians, too. The only time you'll see many unakas is in the summer when the tourists are all over the place or up at the casino."

"There's a casino up here? I thought gambling was illegal."

"Federal law gives Indians the right to run casinos on the reservation." Randy grinned. "We call it scalping the white man. It's our way of getting back some of what the unakas stole from us. Why did you feel funny seeing Indians? I'm Indian."

"Yeah, but I know you. It's just strange not seeing any whites."

"Feel outnumbered? Now you know how I feel most of the time."

"Why? I mean you're half white. Looks like you'd feel okay either place."

"Yeah? Well I'm half Indian, too. I told you last night I feel more at home up here, even if a few of them do call me a white Indian."

"Is that because you could pass for white?"

"Partly, but mostly it's an insult. It means they think I've given up being Indian and taken white ways." Randy grinned. "I'll fight anybody calls me that. It's bad as being called Apple. Hell, I'm more into the old ways than most of them ever will be."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm happiest when I'm with other Indians, 'cept when I'm with you."

Once he helped Randy unload the bottles and reconnect the gas, Brant sat on the porch railing watching Dammit prowl among the trees. Randy came out of the cabin wearing tattered jeans, an old sweat-shirt, and rubber boots. "Come on. I'm going to clean the penstock filters."

He stopped to shut the turbine down.

"Why're you doing that?"

"To keep any trash from getting sucked into the turbine. That could ruin it."

Brant followed him along a steep indistinct path through the light undergrowth. A few yards from a swift stream, Randy stopped at a small stone shed about the size of a small doghouse, lifted the top, and peered inside. Brant could see an unusual machine, two domes shaped like tiny conical bee-hives made of iron. A brass shaft occasionally moved back and forth between them with a clicking sound.

"Bet you've never seen one of these."

"Is that the penstock?"

Randy shook his head. "It's a hydraulic ram."

"So?"

"It's a water-powered pump. The water comes from a spring and the ram forces it to the cabin. The old man lucked out when he was buying the generator because the engineer had this, too."

"Unbelievable. If you can have water and electricity for free, why don't more people do it? I mean we had a pump where we used to live, but it was electric."

"They don't work unless there's some natural pressure behind the water like from an artesian well like this or a falls like the one that drives the turbine. The pressure isn't as high as it would be from an electric pump, but spring water tastes great." Randy replaced the roof. "Okay. Now comes the tough job."

He led the way upstream to where the water cascaded over a rocky ledge, not more than six feet high, splashing noisily against the rocks below. To one side of the ledge that created the falls, a submerged stone basin was covered with a heavy sheet of rusted iron. Randy lay on the bank and reached into the water. The muscles of his arms bulged as he strained to shift the cover to one side. He finally sat up, blowing on his hands to warm them. "Jeez, it's cold. I hope I don't have to get in." He leaned over the basin once more and carefully pulled a framed metal mesh from a slot at the opening to the water, holding it under the falling waters to wash away an accumulation of decaying leaves and twigs. He replaced it and pulled a screen of finer mesh from behind the first one. Once it was washed clean he replaced it and pulled the cover back over the penstock. He stood up, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. "They're so cold they hurt."

"Come on, they can't be that cold."

He clapped his hand against the back of Brant's neck. Brant gasped at the icy touch. "Doesn't the water ever get warm?"

"Nope. All from springs, and they're deep."

They wandered back to the cabin, pausing at the generator house for Randy to restart the turbine.

"Is there anything you can't do?" Brant asked.

Randy's smile flashed. "Plenty, but when you have to take care of yourself you learn fast. It's no big deal. Most kids have someone older to depend on, but after mom died, I didn't."

Brant stopped on the porch, leaning against the railing. Once he had changed, Randy came up beside him, taking one crutch and leaning it against a post, then put his arm around Brant's waist. "See why I like it up here?" He sniffed the air appreciatively. "Smells good, not like town."

Randy let his imagination run free. "Can you imagine what it was like in the old days, getting up in the morning before dawn and going out to hunt for your food, not having a lot of people or noise. Early on there'd be fiddle-head ferns and cress to eat, then wild strawberries, and later on briarberries and huckleberries. Of course you'd have to get them before the yonas did. In late summer, if you were lucky, you might find a bee-tree and have honey. Yeah, we Indians had it pretty good before you white guys came along and screwed it up for everybody."

"When did you ever hunt for breakfast? You get it like I do."

Randy propped one foot on the railing and pulled up his jeans leg so Brant could see the hunting knife in the sheath strapped to his leg. "I've done a little hunting with grandfather. It was after my initiation into the clan. When I was old enough, I had to go into the woods alone for three days with nothing but my knife and the blanket grandmother wove for me."

"You're kidding!"

"No way. I wasn't allowed to take any clothes, food, or water."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen. It's hardly ever done any more and I was a little young according to the custom, but grandfather wanted to see if I was a real Indian since I'm half unaka and was raised in town and all. If you follow the old ways the kids have to stay with the women, so I couldn't be accepted by the men to go hunting or to council meetings until I became a man. The naming ceremony made me a man to those that believe in the old ways."

"Weren't you scared?"

"I suppose I was a little, but he taught me a lot during the summers I stayed with them, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been. Why do you think Indian men are called braves? We aren't supposed to fear anything. Until about eighteen hundred, we had some wars with other tribes, mostly the Creeks and Crows, but after that we mostly farmed a lot and lived in regular houses, not too different from anyone else. But I always think about it when I'm up here."

"Your people didn't ever live in tee-pees?"

"It's tipis, okay? Why should they have? There were plenty of trees around, so they built log cabins sort of like this one, at first. After they got watermills and saws, they built houses out of regular lumber. If they were rich, they used brick. It's the Indians out west used tipis. There weren't enough trees to build houses, and many of the western tribes moved around a lot, because they depended on buffalo hunting. They needed some kind of shelter they could take with them.

"Oh. Do your grandparents live in town?"

"Which one?"

"There're more towns than Cherokee?"

"Sure. There used to be a town for each clan."

"Still?"

"Most of 'em are gone now. Cherokee is the main town, but there's little places like Birdtown, Wolftown, and Painttown here on the reservation. Those are three of the clans."

"Which town was yours?"

"No idea; it's long gone. Next time we come up here, I'll take you over to Oconoluftee village. It's like our towns were in the 1700's. The old council house has eight sides."

"Why?"

"One side is the door. That left a side for each of the seven clans when there was a gathering."

"Are you going to see your grandparents while we're here?"

"If I was by myself, I would, but I can't take you, yet."

"It's okay if you want to go alone."

Randy shook his head. "You don't know enough about the woods, so I can't leave you here with just Dammit around. I want them to meet you, but it would be rude for me to show up with a stranger and we give old people a lot of respect. That's one more thing you've got to learn about us. I mean you don't just walk up to the door. We're private people. We invite others to our homes only after we've gotten to know them. After dad and I have seen them two or three times and talked about you so they know who you are, you'll be welcome to visit them with me. Hey, paleface want'um fish for dinner?"

"I don't much like fish."

"You'll like these, buddy; trout fresh from the stream. Wait a minute." He returned with a couple of rods and a tackle box. "See, I won't even make you get in the water and catch them with your hands. We'll do it the unaka way."

They retraced their steps to the pool a short distance from the falls. Back turned toward Brant, Randy rigged the rods, occasionally murmuring something in Cherokee. He turned and handed one of the rods to Brant. "Cast over there near the rocks where the water's still."

Brant held the rod in front of him, staring at it. "I don't know how."

Randy stood patiently behind him, covering his hands with his own to make a cast and play the fly on the surface. A fish jumped but didn't take the lure. He reeled in and cast again. The fly landed short of the intended spot and jumped violently as Brant amateurishly jerked the line. A large trout broke the surface, took the fly, and ran. In the excitement, Randy nearly pushed him into the stream. "Keep the line snug and work him in, otherwise he'll get away. I'll get the net." A second later, he stepped into the water, guiding Brant until the fish was close enough to scoop up. Randy glowed approval as he unhooked the large trout and laid it on the thick growth of fern. "Look at the size of 'im. Got to be beginner's luck. A couple more like that and we'll have enough."

"Aren't you going to take some home to your dad?"

Randy shook his head. "Indians take only what they can use immediately. We don't believe in wasting anything from nature, that way we never want. Living in harmony with nature is the most important part of our religion."

"I thought you were Lutheran."

Randy's expression became solemn. "I'm both. Just because I'm a Christian and half white doesn't mean I gave up my heritage. Let's fish, or we won't eat." He helped Brant make another cast then picked up his own rod and moved a short distance upstream. He had a strike but returned the small fish to the water. Moments later he brought in one almost as large as Brant's. He was about to make another cast when he heard a splash and a yell. He dropped the rod and raced to where Brant sat in the frigid stream trying to maintain his balance and hold on to the rod while the swift moving water dragged one of his crutches along the stream bed.

Randy stopped laughing long enough to pull Brant up on the bank then wade into the stream after the crutch. He shook the water from it and carried it to a chagrined Brant who nevertheless grinned as he held up a sizable trout. "I didn't let him get away."

"Wish I had my camera. The old man'll never believe it. Come on and get dried off before you catch cold."

They went back to the cabin where Brant dried off with a towel. Randy wrapped him in a thick beach towel and poked up the fire. "Sit here and get warm while I get the fish."

Brant was nearly asleep when Randy returned with the fish cleaned and ready for the pan. Looking at him lying on the rug before the fire, Randy felt the last of his barriers crumble. Checking an impulse to reach out, he spun on his heel to go to the kitchen, stopping when Brant asked, "What was that you said when you rigged the rods?"

"I didn't think you heard me."

"Was it something for luck? I mean we caught them awful fast."

"Let me put the fish in the kitchen."

When he returned, Randy hunkered down on his heels, put a hand under Brant's chin and turned his head so that he stared into his eyes. "Maybe it's time I told you some of the important stuff. Those three days I spent in the woods alone was a religious thing. I built a shelter from branches I cut with the knife. I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. I stayed in my shelter meditating and praying until I had my vision. When I came out of the woods, I told my grandfather about it and we went to the shaman. He had to study the meaning of what I saw. Traditionally he has three days to work it out and it took him the whole three days because I had two parts to my vision and he had to decide what each part meant and how they were connected. Those were the longest days of my life, because until he found the meaning, my relatives couldn't have my naming ceremony. That's when I got my Indian name which describes what I saw and the feelings which give purpose to my life. The medicine man told me my vision of me standing alone on a mountain meant there would be times I'd be lonely and the strong winds blowing against me meant I'd have times of trouble. Boy, was he ever right about that. I have been lonely and others have been against me. It wasn't too bad until mom died, but since then, it's been tough. I saw a mockingbird bird and heard it singing the songs of other birds. He said I was given the gift of making the music others had written. That's why I like playing so much, it's part of my gift and my life.

"Before we started fishing I was asking a blessing from yunwi amaiyinehi, who is the water dweller and then a prayer. We Cherokee believe that the whole world belongs to Asga-Ya-Galun-lati the Great Spirit, and all living things share in that spirit. When we hunt or fish, we say a prayer so the fish or animal doesn't die needlessly. Its spirit lives on in us. I guess the best way I can explain it is to tell you part of a story that's been handed down among our people, called The Origin of Medicine.

'At one time, animals and people lived together peaceably and talked with each other. But then mankind began to multiply rapidly and the animals were crowded into forests and deserts.

'Man began to destroy animals wholesale for their skins and furs, not just for needed food. Animals became angry at such treatment by their former friends, resolving they must punish mankind.

'The deer tribe called together its council led by Chief Little Deer. They decided that any Indian hunters, who killed deer without asking pardon in a suitable manner, should be afflicted with painful rheumatism in their joints.

'After this decision, Chief Little Deer sent a messenger to their nearest neighbors, the Cherokee Indians.

'From now on, your hunters must first offer a prayer to the deer before killing him,' said the messenger. 'You must ask his pardon, stating that you are forced only by the hunger needs of your tribe to kill the deer. Otherwise, a terrible disease will come to the hunter.

'When a deer is slain by an Indian hunter, Chief Little Deer will run to the spot and ask the slain deer's spirit, "Did you hear the hunter's prayer for pardon?"

'If the reply is yes, then all is well and Chief Little Deer returns to his cave. But if the answer is no, then Chief Little Deer tracks the hunter to his lodge and strikes him with the terrible disease of rheumatism, making him a hopeless cripple unable to hunt again.

'The fishes and other animals and reptiles joined in, in haunting the Cherokee.'

"There's more to the story, but this is enough of it to explain why we make a prayer to the animal spirit. If nothing else, it honors the fish or animal that we eat. The old man wrote a monograph about the Cherokee religion, comparing it to other religions. He thinks it's closest to the Animists, but there's a lot of parallel to the Bible, like the flood and the plagues and all that."

Brant had sat, brow creased in concentration, as Randy recounted the story. Now his face cleared in a shy smile. "I think maybe that's a good way to think about things. I like it."

Randy nodded, then stood. "Agiyosi," he growled and pulled Brant up.

"Agiyosi?"

"I'm hungry. You'll pick up a few words of our language if you hang around me, 'specially up here. Most of the people dad and I know up here speak Cherokee, so I don't even think in English."

Once he showed Brant how to shred the cabbage for slaw, Randy fried the fish. Dammit watched attentively, licking his chops.

"Sorry, boy. Bones," Randy sympathized as he opened a tin of dog food and emptied it in Dammit's dish.

Brant pushed back from the table. "I didn't know fish tasted this good."

"I told you. It's only when they're really fresh, though; another reason I like it up here. Want to walk in the woods? I've got to bury the garbage."

They pushed through the undergrowth back of the cabin for some distance until they reached a small mound of earth. "Why bury it? Isn't there a dump?" Brant asked as Randy dug with an old army-surplus entrenching tool.

"This isn't town. If I didn't bury it, we'd have yona all over the place." He pointed to several deep holes scratched in the mound. "Looks like one has found it already. I'll have to bury this deeper."

"Yona?"

"Bear."

Brant's eyes widened. "There really are bears around here?"

"Sure. That's why I can't leave you alone. You probably wouldn't see one except where people get careless like they do at the campsites." He shoveled the earth back over the garbage and stamped it down, leaving the tool sticking up. "Let's walk a bit."

They continued deeper into the woods, Randy pointing out the trailing pine, galax, partridge berries, arbutus, trillium, leathery-leafed rhododendron. He pulled a leaf from a plant and crushed it, holding it out for Brant to smell the sharp tang of mint. Later he bent to pick a heart-shaped leaf with dark green stripes from a low growing plant in the moist earth by a tiny spring. Brant was unable to identify the pungent spicy odor.

"It's wild ginger. We call it asbacca. It's another medicinal herb like mint."

"You know how to use them?"

"Not many. I didn't get that far in my studies with the medicine man. I do like one that everybody knows, sassafras tea. I'm not sure what it's supposed to cure except that it's good for breaking out measles." He grinned. "Mom used it on me when I had them. It tastes really good. If I can find a root at the right time of year, I'll fix you some."

"It's great up here. I like the woods and camping out. I did it a few times with Jack and his father and it was fun. My dad said it was barbaric, like people haven't progressed from early times."

"You'll be a natural for anthropology. A lot of times the sites under excavation are away from everything. You have to camp out in tents and all that."

"It's like people have never been here before." Brant remarked after they had walked a little further into the woods.

Randy's expression grew serious again. "It's clean because some of us follow the old ways. Instead of taking the gifts Mother Earth offers and using them wisely, unakas take it all and leave only waste and destruction. It tears a real Indian up to see it. You remember those conservation ads on TV of the Indian sitting horse-back looking at all the litter the whites have left around? A lot of people think it's funny when he cries, but it's true." He shrugged. "You see junk and litter in places from Indians who have gotten a lot like the unakas, but some of us still care. That's why I'm always careful to bury the garbage and burn the trash, or bag it and take it home to get rid of it. It wouldn't be a big deal if everyone took care of his own little bit, but most just don't care."

He pointed out lichens, gray against the moss on decaying tree trunks. Yellow-green shoots of new growth along branches made sharp contrast with the deep blue-green of spruce. Randy stopped and drew in a deep breath. "Do you feel it?"

"What?"

Randy shook his head sadly. "I didn't think you could."

"You lost me."

"It's another of those things that Indians feel when they're in tune with the earth. The earth is like us, it sleeps, it awakens. Spring is the awakening. The sap throbs in the trees, flows in new leaves, you can feel how good it is inside you. Flowers come, the air freshens; it's Mother Earth being born again."

Brant's expression grew resigned. "I'll never know you."

Randy hugged him. "Back home you know me because that's your culture and I live in it, too, but up here is my real world and something you've never known. Just take me as I am, my brother."

"I do. But I want to share your other self, too."

"I wish you could, but ..." Randy shrugged and took another deep breath.

The floor of the woods was soft, springy underfoot from the accumulation of leaves and needles, but as they climbed the ridge away from the cover of the trees, the leafy carpet gave way to sparse areas of grass among the boulders where the few trees were little more than stunted bushes. The clumps of grass gave to weathered granite, moss covered in spots. When Brant's crutches slipped on a moss covered rock, Randy picked him up and carried him the last few yards to the top, stepping sure-footedly from boulder to boulder until the vista opened before them. In the hazy distance, mountain peaks towered above. After he sat Brant down on a flat rock, Randy waved a hand at them. "When I look out there, it's like I'm going back in time. One night last year when dad and I were up here, I couldn't sleep because it was hot. I came up here and sat on that rock you're on to do my meditation. I was alone and this was the wilderness. I heard the singing of the trees, the cries of the night birds, the sounds of small animals in the brush. When I heard a mocking bird coo like a dove, I knew my spirit guide was with me. I went into his body and flew high. All the spirits of nature surrounded me. It was wonderful."

He stopped speaking and gazed into the distance in recollection of how, just as he had seated himself, lower legs crossed, feet drawn up under his thighs, his arms resting on his knees, hands out with palms up in supplication, the moon had risen above the trees, bathing him in brightness. The air stirred, a gentle warmth settled over him with the caress of a down comforter as he closed his eyes in meditation.

He spun around to Brant and pointing to a slight plume of smoke rising from a stand of trees further along. "Tommy lives there." He dropped his arm and gazed over the valley. Suddenly he grabbed Brant's arm, pointing to a small meadow far below. Barely visible, a black form lumbered through the brush. "Yona! See 'im?"

Brant watched intently until the animal disappeared among the trees. "That's the first one I ever saw outside a zoo. I thought you were kidding."

"No way. There's cat, too. You won't see one, but you might hear one scream at night."

"Cat?"

"Paintercat is what the unakas around here call them. They're really bobcat or mountain lions. Not many left now because of the hunters. Bears are okay. I mean they won't bother you unless they have cubs and feel threatened, but cat are just plain mean. That's why we keep Dammit in the cabin at night. He'd love to take one on, but that's a fight he'd lose."

They scrambled down the boulders and worked their way back to the cabin, Brant overwhelmed by the raw nature surrounding them. He dropped down on the steps, the husky at his foot, while Randy pulled a battered lawnmower from under the porch. After repeatedly pulling the cord and swearing, he kicked the machine which started on the next pull. He cut the narrow band of grass and weeds around the cabin, sweat pouring down his back, the ragged cut-offs wet when he pushed the mower back in place. "At least dad can't say we didn't do anything while we were here."

"You mean you did something. It isn't fair for you to do it and me just sit here."

"I'd have to do it anyway." He glanced around. "Not enough to rake up. I'm going for a shower."

He came back in a clean pair of shorts, nudged Dammit with a toe to move him, and sat on the step next to Brant, draping an arm over his shoulders. "I wish you'd been around five years ago when mom died and dad shut me out. Those shits at school didn't want me around and Mike was the only Indian friend I had. Maybe I could have talked to him, but he's older and not into being Indian, so he probably wouldn't have understood about me. That left only my godparents, but I couldn't talk to them about being gay, because Hank has a fit if he even hears the word. The other guys would talk about girls and I didn't care. I knew I should, but they just didn't interest me. It was the other way. There was this one guy a couple of years ago used to get to me something fierce. I had to stay out of the shower room after gym because I was afraid somebody might see how I felt about him. What was so bad was he hated me."

"How'd you know?"

" 'Cause he's the one called me 'horrible half-breed.' The other guys thought it was wild and he made sure I heard him every time he said it until I had enough and decked him." He grinned. "I got suspended for a week, but it was worth it. After that, they left me alone. I couldn't talk to Hank or Helen about things like that. It's bad enough being Indian in that place without adding queer to it. That's why I put on the act. Scheisse, big as I am now nobody's going to mess with me. Anyway, it got me through until you showed up. That day you asked me where Nowell's office was I wanted you so bad I had to leave to keep from putting my arms around you. I was hoping you'd feel the same way, but I couldn't believe I'd be lucky enough for it to happen, or that you'd like an Indian."

He looked pleadingly at Brant. "That's why I was so mean at first. I thought it would be better to keep as far away from you as I could, even when it hurt like hell to have you sitting next to me in class. But it seemed like the more I tried, the more things brought us together, like Nowell wanting us to do the duets. It almost pushed me over the edge when you were so close to me on the organ bench. If I hadn't concentrated on the music, I'd of done this." He grabbed Brant in a bear hug and kissed him. "Damn it, you kept on pushing and look what it got you."

"If you mean I got a great guy who loves me like I am, then I got what I wanted. I'm sorry I wasn't around when you needed me, but we've got each other now and that's what counts. Does your dad know?"

"I doubt he really knows much of anything about me, but most likely he'll fling a fit if he finds out. I know Hank would. He's always screaming about the music school being full of queers. Most of 'em aren't, but he thinks they are. Helen would probably take it okay. At least she'd try to understand. What about your folks?"

"Probably wouldn't give a damn unless I started acting fag so it screwed up the old man's image at the bank. That's all they care about. They liked Jack a hell of a lot more than they ever did me. Mom said he was the sweetest kid she'd ever met, and she was always after me to be more like him. Dad stayed on my ass, too, because Jack was a big deal at school, you know, student government, football jock, and all that. He wanted me to be the same." Brant snickered. "Boy, if they'd really known why he was around so much."

Following the weekend at the cabin, Brant and Randy gradually became aware of changes in the attitudes of those around them. Teachers began to praise the gains Randy made in his work as he progressed from merely good to excellent. Even Mr. Nowell who had complained constantly about Randy's emotionless note-perfect playing heard him begin to evoke feeling into the music. All of his teachers were relieved that they could at last talk to him without incurring an outburst of temper. They favored Brant, knowing that in some way he was responsible for the change, seeing, too, gains in his already superior work.