Status: One-shot for ManEater's "Boys Will be Boys" writing contest.

The Indians of Bending Creek

Buried

"And so the Winawee pushed the English troops back out of their land!"

Mr. Brooker, my history teacher, was a short man with wide-eyed enthusiasm and hands which seemed never to stay still. He paced the front of the room, dressed in his beige suit with suspenders and a black tie, his round glasses perched precariously on a round nose which seemed to small for his pudgy face. He was the kind of man that you couldn't imagine being even mildly irritated - much less angry. Excited, maybe. He had a quick-witted, barbed tongue that I enjoyed, and an enthusiastic childishness that didn't allow you to be offended for long.

"Until," he froze, holding up one finger and looking around dramatically. There was murder in his eyes, wide and sand-coloured, "fireworks! The invention of the Chinese Firebird, called a firecracker in England and a firework in North America, signaled the downfall of the Winawee. Terrified of the light which exploded in the sky, they fled from their land near the river and were slain by the advancing English troops as they fled." He told history the way people tell campfire stories. "And," he continued, his voice dropping to a rumbling whisper that could be heard easily across the entire classroom and probably four doors down the hallway, "some stories say that the final Winawee - a woman named Sorah - died right here. Grievously injured and fleeing with her small child, she was shot where the statue of Mr. Edmond's currently stands - in the middle of our parking lot."

"Seems kind of disrespectful." I whispered, leaning over close by Jackson. He ignored me, seeming not even to have heard. His black eyes shone as he looked straight ahead at the animated figure of Mr. Brooker. Raising his hand, the boy quickly licked his lips.

The classroom was hot - strange, for the weather outside. The morning sunlight shone from a clear sky, blue and cloudless; but it was deceptive. For the first time, the temperature had fallen past zero. The air was clear, but freezing. Inside the classroom, however, it was sweltering. I felt a bead of sweat forming near by collar, and shifted uncomfortably in my low, blue plastic chair. My backpack sat beside my desk, all note-taking forgotten in Mr. Brooker's excitement. The class was eerily hushed, every students attention focused completely on the man at the front of the room.

"Yes, Mr. Howrath?" the teacher raised his bushy grey eyebrows. That was one of the things I liked most about Mr. Brooker. He used students last names, and addressed each of us respectfully. Talking to him felt like talking to a grandfather - someone you demanded respect quietly, but did not rub your nose in it. You felt equal, even looking up to him.

"Why did the Winawee run at the sound of fireworks?" he asked. Strangely, I could hear a sort of awe in Jackson's voice. He was completely caught up in the story, I realized. To him - this was real.

"The sight!" Mr. Brooker whispered, his voice deepening even further. "They had never seen anything like these lights except for the Aurora Borealis, which-"

"Aurorwhat?" a girl asked genuinely from the back of the class, drawing quiet snickers.

"Northern Lights, Miss Penskot." the older man raised his light brown eyes, crinkling them slightly around the edges in a gesture of patient coercion. "Nobody can say why the Winawee found the fireworks so frightening - the sound of explosions, louder than anything they ever would have heard, would certainly have been part of it. Some stories say they cried of black magic, and others the wrath of the gods."

"Oh." Jackson breathed beside me, his voice light and enraptured.

"The one thing I can tell you for certain," Mr. Brooker said softly, "and I should be telling any of you this, so keep it on the peep, but this schools foundation sits on the burial ground of the Winawee."

"Ghosts." I heard whispered around the class. "Spirits. Isn't that - vengeful. Laws that - prohibitions." I didn't catch the full sentences, but the disturb was evident. It spread through the class like ripples. A moment later, the bell rang. I have to admit, I jumped a bit in my seat as it did.

I reached over to gather up my bag and swing it across my shoulders. As I stood, I realized that Jackson hadn't moved. His bag still sat on the ground, forgotten, and he looked up at me with wide black eyes. They shone in the stark fluorescent light of the classroom, turning to pools of black liquid. It was only not that I realized there was a spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. In that moment, he looked oddly like a child.

Throughout the rest of the day, I forgot what had been said and done in the rest of my classes. My mind was focused solely on the Winawee woman. I could see her in my mind, and even though I knew the image was wrong, it wrenched at my heart. A woman dressed in leather and furs, her long black hair tangled around her shoulders and a baby clutched to he breast, knees striking the pavement as she fell forward. The spray of blood as the bullet tore through her. It was almost enough to make me sick. Sick, and vengeful. I almost felt like a spirit myself, then. I bumped into the blonde-haired girl once, at lunch. She smiled and gave me a small wave, but I only dipped my head and continued walking; in no mood to talk.

By the end of the day, I was completely wrapped up in the story. I actually had to go back to the drama class - and face Mr. Castoda's strangely searching narrow eyes - because I forgot my backpack there. I'm sure he thought I was drunk or on drugs or something. As I pushed shut (see also: slammed) the door to out dormitory, Jackson turned away from where he had been studying at his desk. His dark eyes bore into mine searchingly.

"What's up, Jascer?" he asked, setting his pencil down against the wood with a sharp click. I noticed fleetingly that he moved his body to cover the papers that were stacked on the desk in front of him, but the thought crossed into my mind and passed out in an instant, as quickly as I breathed.

"Man, I can't stop thinking about that woman."

"The Winawee one." he breathed, his eyes falling slightly before rising back to meet mine. "Yeah ... me too."

"That's fucked up, man. I can't believe they built a school on top of her and I just-" I stopped, shivering slightly. "It makes me not even want to go here, you know?"

To my surprise, he nodded.

"I just wish there was some way we could, you know ... show them that we don't agree with it."

There was a long moment of silence as I stood in front of the doorway, dark and broodingly silent, and Jackson hesitated. Then he let out a pent up sigh and turned over one shoulder. Holding the stack of sheets in his hands, he balanced them softly between his fingers and bounced them there. On the desk, a stick of incense was burning in its metal casing - lavender, today. The scent soothed me, somewhat.

"So, I know this is kind of stupid." he said, glancing down at the papers in his hands. "I skipped fourth today. I was so distracted I couldn't go to class, I just ... I had to ..." he trailed off.

"You had to...?" I prompted, gesturing with my hands.

"Just, here!" he shoved the papers at me. Startled, I took them and blinked once in surprise.

"You can draw?" I asked, and then swallowed, reaffirming myself. "Holy fuck Jack, you can draw!"

On the slightly crinkled printer paper in my hands were two boys. One was obvious Jack, tattoos and all. He wore a pair of leather pants, and had a single feather hanging in his hair. Even in pencil, that hair seemed to have colour. His dark eyes stared at me from the surface of the paper - so realistic I expected them to blink back. The other was slightly taller, with similar features. He carried a bow in one hand, and an arrow in the other. His eyes were shaded more lightly, his hair slightly curlier around the edges. A necklace hung from his neck; a small disk, looped through by a white string. Enormous feathers adorned the figures hair, sticking up from the band of a native headdress. Both figures were shirtless, their muscles indented and shaded gently - wearing nothing but leather pants.

It's me.

I knew with absolute certainty that the boys staring out from the paper were Jack and I, each dressed like ... well, like Indians.

"This means war."
♠ ♠ ♠
The "Winawee" are not an actual Native American tribe which existed in North America. I didn't want to incorporate real cultures, because I don't want to cause unintentional insult. Again, I want to thank everyone who has been following along. Bless you.
For reference; here's the photo I was challenged to write about: "Warpaint".