(One day, thinking about the desperation frontier families might have felt when a child was kidnapped and realizing the relief they would embrace by making contact with an expert who could find the missing one. . . I wrote this introductory vignette.
What would it have been like to be . . . The Tracker?)
They come.
They come with drawn faces, wild eyes and tear streaks. And
hope.There is always a desperate, elusive hope in their voices when they talk
to me.
I’m their last hope, I guess. The last hope they have of
seeing again dear faces and holding small forms, the last hope of reunited
families and full tables. They put every last ounce of anticipation on me, my
skills and knowledge, my strength to face wilderness and not give up when
following the slightest of evidence.
They trust me; they have to. No one else has a chance of finding what
they’ve lost. They don’t need the militia or all the force of the closest
frontier fort. Only I can follow the trail the invaders have used.
I’m the tracker.
I learned the gift of words from my father, an interesting
mix of a man, criminal and poet. Released into the wilderness for taking part
in a series of heinous crimes, he was almost dead when discovered by my
mother’s tribe, the Cherokee. Being the
curious and mostly humanitarian people they are, they nursed him back to health
and didn’t inquire too much about his past. When the chief’s daughter claimed
him as a husband, all suspicions were put to rest, at least until he ran off in
the dead of night and never returned. The natives do not abide betrayal and if
he were ever to return, it would be to his own funeral. Nevertheless, the chief
looked past the bad blood I had inherited and saw only the straight form and
mocha skin of his daughter when he saw me. It is to him that I owe all the
skill I have as well as whatever idea I may have of manhood and my
responsibility to use it well.
I do have the eyes of my father, though, in addition to his
penchant for words. My eyes are hard, roving, and cold. I wish they weren’t
mine, but a son does bear his father’s image, and this is mine to bear. Some of
those who come to me are put off by my gaze, afraid I will be ruthless and
violent. There is little I can do to convince them beside point to the many
that I have recovered.
You might wonder if it is hard for me to do these type of
rescues since I am half-Indian. I don’t know. I understand that many tribes
substitute kidnapees for relatives killed by whites. My tribe, the Cherokee,
never did this, and I consider it wrong to take something that doesn’t belong
to you, be it a horse or a gun or a wife or child.
My mother taught me this. Maybe her deep sense of integrity
was the source of her worst grief when it became known that her white husband
had deserted her; that, along with her womanly disbelief at being tossed aside
so easily.
She did tell me about him, though, even kept his journals
for me to read, so that I would understand the tree from which my branch
sprouted. Those little books were filled with verses that he had composed –
some in prison, some in the woods, some in a smoky Cherokee lodge. They were
beautiful; hauntingly so. They gave me insight into the white world that
continues to help me to this day.
There is little that surprises me. I’ve seen much and heard
more. Massacres, attacks, babies dashed against cabins, pregnant women scalped,
prisoners burnt at the stake. There are
terrible things that men do to one another.
And sometimes I think I will give it up. Maybe I will find a quiet spot
in the woods I love and build a cabin with a ledge to feed the squirrels and
have the solitary life that I must be meant for. But every time I decide to do
it, another knock at my door brings a desolate family pleading for my help.
I always go. I don’t think I’ve ever said no. And the look
on their faces when I say quietly, “I’ll look for her” is one that always
surprises me. No, it shames me. They want to fall at my feet, do obeisance,
promise me their lifelong gratitude. And
while I know it is awful to miss someone in your life, I don’t really know how
it is for them, to have someone snatched. My father left on his own. No one
made him go. But he is gone, all the
same. And he left no tracks. Maybe that’s why I’m so good at this. I can see
the faintest imprint of moccasin, the slightest disturbance of underbrush; I
can sense when the trail is hot or cold. Maybe I’m searching for him, and
getting better all the time. There sure have been a lot of people who should
thank him. They don’t know that it’s really him who keeps me going out there
in the chilled woods.
