Injuns by Eric Johnson

My brother, Tadferd, and I loved going to my great grandparents’ house when we were young. Grandma and Granddad lived about forty-five minutes away, on the other side of the county.

Their modest, single-story, white-shingled house was just off the highway, nestled amongst the largest oak trees my eight-year-old eyes had ever seen.

My grandparents’ property was full of many, peculiar, and sometimes scary things. They had a tall decorative ceramic pot in their den that housed a dragon. On the ground between the smokehouse and the barn, was a door that opened into the earth where the kid-eating troll lived. In their side yard was a big silver submarine, and behind their house, was a jungle where a humongous talking snake lived. Farther back, behind the jungle, was a forest so thick, that only wild Indians could find their way through it.

These things we believed because Granddad told us so.

My brother and I, along with my cousins, Kevin and Dish, would sit in a semi-circle in front of Granddad’s chair and listen to these stories while eating Grandma’s homemade fried pies.

Granddad would sit in silence, looking at us for a moment before starting his tale. He would always begin by “knocking off” a hunk of chewing tobacco with his pocket-knife and shoving it into his mouth. Being polite, he would offer each of us some of the freshly cut wad, and with a child’s glance toward our respective parents, we would always decline.

Granddad liked to start the stories with the phrase, “You boys see this scar?” He would then roll up his sleeve, or the leg of his overalls, and there would indeed be a scar.

Then he would proceed to tell us about how he had to fight off the Indians, and one of them had speared him. Or, that he and the giant talking snake had a fight, and he had to pry the snake’s jaws from his arm. One time, he accidentally knocked over the pot in the den, and, as the dragon ran rabid through the house, the pointed tail poked him in the leg. We listened to these stories with wonder stretched wide across our pie-stained faces.

One Sunday, we were all playing quietly in the dirt behind Granddad’s smokehouse (which was rumored to house the ghost of a Civil War rebel whose head was taken off by a cannon ball), when Kevin suddenly tossed his stick across the yard and stood facing the rest of us.

”I’m going to go see the Injuns,” he said. Then, casually peering around the corner of the smokehouse, just to make sure the rest of the family was still sitting and talking on the porch, he looked at us and whispered, “Y’all ain’t chicken, are ya?”

I quickly got to my feet and glared at him. ”Who you calling chicken?”

”I’m in,” Tadferd said, balancing himself on his oversized cowboy boots.

Dish, who was only five at the time, looked at us, with puddles already filling his eyes. “I don’t wanna go,” he said, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. He folded his arms across his chest with a ‘frump’.

“You gotta go, Dish. If ya don’t, the troll will open that door over there, drag you in, and eat you. He knows you’re here. Tadferd told him,”

“Nooooooo!” Dish screeched. “I’m going with you guys!”

“Okay then, let’s go.”

We left the smokehouse, doing our best sneaky ninja impressions, all the way to the barn at the edge of the dark forest. After selecting four of Granddad’s finest cane poles to use as spears, we were on our way.

We crawled on the ground, flattened ourselves against trees, peered over logs, and waded through the streams for the next two hours, with no Injuns in sight. Not even one. We were getting tired, and more disappointed by the minute.

Dish, who had finally resolved himself to the fact that he was not going to be scalped by Injuns, had begun complaining that his feet hurt from all the ninja-ing. And when he fell into the water while crossing that last stream, he had had enough. One look at him, and anyone would know that he wasn’t taking another step.

“Tell Mom I love her,” he said, tossing his head back and throwing his arm up to shield his eyes. “Kevin, you can have my comic books. And Tadferd, you and Eric can have my racetrack.”

He threw his body to the ground and looked up toward the sky. “The light… it’s glorious,” he whispered, his voice fading with each word. His limp arm was straining to reach upward.

“We got a man down!” Tadferd yelled.

“We don’t leave a man behind,” I said. “I’ll carry him. Help me get him on my shoulders.” Kevin and Tadferd did exactly as I asked, taking the utmost care to not further injure our wilting comrade.

“We gotta git him to a hospital,” Kevin murmured.

We all silently looked at each other in agreement.

The four of us headed back, along the creek toward the house, barely speaking to each other. I was holding onto Dish’s limp frame, trying to maintain my balance. Dish was sitting loosely on my shoulders, muttering something about how the famous die young and that his greatness would never be realized. Tadferd and Kevin were trudging slowly behind.

I had just walked through a section of low-hanging branches when I heard a loud hollow thump. My eyes squinted in confusion; I paused on the path and tried to locate the source of the sound.

I turned to see my brother and Kevin trying to climb up each other and soundlessly screaming words that would not come out of their mouths. Both of their faces contorted in twin masks of fear. Finally, together, they yelled, “Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!”

I looked up and saw the hornets’ nest just above us. Dish’s head had already collided with it a few times and the hornets were beginning to exit the nest with great malice.

Dish, who just a few minutes ago barely had any life energy left in him, was quickly becoming aware of the tense situation.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” he cried, as all of his muscles clamped tightly against me. “Run! Run! I don’t wanna die!” he screamed.

Dish’s legs, were now clutched around my neck, choking the breath out of me. His hands were across my face, partially blocking my vision. And, he was bouncing up and down like a toddler, and squeezing my head into a new shape.

I felt two rushes of air pass by me on either side. I realized that the other two ninjas had just left two men behind.

I started to run. No longer thinking of holding onto Dish, I ran as fast as my legs would go. Hornets hit me, stinger first, feeding octane to my increasing speed.

One hornet stung me in the temple, between Dish’s fingers, and knocked me off course; I hit the trunk of a pecan tree and went down to one knee.

I recovered, and began to pick up speed again; then Dish shifted his grip, wrapping his legs around my throat. I was totally blind and on the verge of blacking out from oxygen deprivation.

I felt something wet on my feet and realized I was caught in the rut of the creek bed that was full of water. To my recollection, my feet did not sink below the surface.

The creek banked hard, and I was thrown out of the rut and back into the trees, ricocheting from one tree to another for about fifty yards.

I was starting to decelerate when a stinger sunk hard into the back of one of my legs, which, oddly enough caused my rear end to tuck forward, my legs to become ridged and one of my pupils to dilate. I began to accelerate again and for a moment, my toes were my only form of locomotion.

Dish never saw the limb coming. It hit him square in the forehead, causing him to immediately lose all muscle control. He seemed to be melting as he began sliding down my back.

I reached around and grabbed one of his ankles just before the swarm of hornets could overtake us, and took off with every ounce of energy I had left in me.

Dish’s ankle was still firmly in my grasp as I broke out of the dark forest and into the garden.

I ran up the hill, past the talking snake who was laughing as he yelled, “Run, White Boy! Run!”

Dish’s unconscious body dragged behind me face down, bouncing across the garden ruts. His arms, also dragging, as if they were kite tails.

I passed the troll’s door without incident. Though I did not want to, I looked behind me to see if the swarm was still in pursuit.

It looked like most of the hornets had given up the chase. I could only see two or three of them within stinging range. Trying to dodge their impending attacks, I ran blindly into the back of the submarine.

Momentarily suspended, sandwiched between the LP tank and my cousin’s limp body, I distinctly remember what thoughts were going through my head, as if it were yesterday: I made it. I saved Dish.

Then a hornet stung me on the end of the nose, and everything went black.

When I came to, my Granddad was waving a plug of chew under my nose. Tadferd and Kevin stood behind him looking at me; their faces were already swelling from the stings.

I heard a lamb crying and turned to see Grandma picking rocks out of Dish’s nose. He did not seem happy about me saving his life.

“You all right, Boy? What happened?” my Granddad asked. He waited patiently for me to speak.

I reached one swollen arm up and placed it on his shoulder, “Injuns” I said, smiling.

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Eric Johnson is a part time writer and full time metal sculptor. He writes about his family and friends and growing up in central Alabama. Eric has been published in local papers and nationally in a collection of award winning humor shorts entitled “Laugh Your Shorts Off” by M. Culbertson. Eric finds humor in everyday situations and believes that humor and unbridled imagination is what keeps us young and content.