Free Cold River Resurrection by Enes Smith Page B

to my uncle, my father’s brother. He gave it to me before I left for the war of my generation. I wore it into Cambodia a year before Nixon announced we were going into that godforsaken jungle.” Nathan chuckled, a low dry laugh, as if what he was remembering wasn’t particularly funny, but there was no other way to think of it.
    “My uncle fought beside me many a day,” Nathan said. “I once carried two of my wounded buddies a lot of miles to a base camp, chased first by the Khmer Rouge and then VC. When I got there the commander was astonished that this little Indian could carry two heavy Šiyápu. I didn’t tell him that my uncle was lifting also. He wouldn’t have understood.”
    Smokey touched the necklace, thinking that he should have left it with Amelia, to help her with the alcohol, the drugs, the temptations of loneliness. He must have said her name aloud as Nathan interrupted his thoughts about his late wife.
    “Maybe you should have Little Brother, given Amelia the wahayakt, but then you might not have made it back.”
    “Maybe not,” Smokey agreed. But then, she might have been able to use my strength to fight her devils.
    “Did I ever tell you about taking Amelia up here, Uncle?”
    “No.”
    “When we first got married, she was nineteen, I was twenty-eight. She had been going to college down there in Bend, at the community college, and when she got out for the summer, we used to hike up in this valley.”
    Nathan didn’t speak. Smokey didn’t expect him to, and thought about that summer. He smiled. After a time, he spoke again.
    “We would pitch a small ts’xwili, and when it got dark we would build a fire and put a blanket out next to it. In the warm of the summer night we would lay together on the blanket and talk, look at the stars, and make love. Talk and make love and lay by the fire and hold each other until morning. On each trip, we would always pitch a tent, but I don’t remember ever using it. We hiked in here several times that summer - Amelia would have our packs ready when I got home for the weekend. Later, when I left for war, we never talked about it, Amelia and me. We never talked about it when things got bad, but I know this was our best time. Her best time, and mine. 
    Laurel was conceived up here, that summer. Ah, Amelia . . .  we just never talked about it when things got bad for you.
    Smokey lay there for a long time, thinking of things past, of regrets, of things unsaid. His uncle snorted, then began to snore, a low rumble, and then he turned and quit. Smokey lay on his back and looked up at the stars, the dark sky giving way to moonrise, the starlight giving the forest a surreal quality, as if he were on the moon, or a moon of another planet. One of the moons of Jupiter. He drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of that first summer with Amelia here, with her by the fire. But his dreams turned to his night here with his uncle.
    Something moved in the tree line.
    There in the forest.
    In his dream, Smokey slowly reached over and touched his uncle. The snoring stopped.
    Uncle, what’s that in the woods, coming this way, something walkin?
    Uncle, can you see?
    Yes, Smokey, I can see things we were not meant to see.
    A strange figure stood at the edge of the woods and looked at them, standing on two legs, covered with long hair, too tall for a bear, didn’t walk like a bear.
    I’ve seen Mr. Bear walk before, up on two legs. This shadow walks in a lurch, like the undead, like a shadow man on a stroll.
    Uncle.
    Can you see?
    I can see.
    Uncle, you have your eyes closed.
    As you should, Smokey.
    The hair figure looked straight at Smokey, raised his head and howled, a sound like Smokey had heard only once before, when he camped up here with his uncle many summers ago, a sound not unlike that of the wolf, only deeper, longer.
    Uncle, my eyes are closed, what’s that noise?
    And what is that creature howling at us?
    Smokey could see the muscles moving under the hair as the creature