"Dead Peoples' Things" Part One

Dead People’s Things: Ancient Secrets

by Nic Patrie

“Among the many varied native American dialects and religious practices there is one name that they all share. It is a name that is not so much spoken as it is pronounced in hushed tones; a name that seems to elicit a sense of doom or a sort of Armageddon.” Dr.Donald Cortland

June 6^th, 1967- Boston, Massachusetts

                The train pulled into Boston. It was too early in the morning but time was not really on his side. Alfred Kovach left the cool stone confines of South Station to an environment that puzzled his skin; the air was warm but the mist of the morning was a bit chilly. It had to feel foreign though considering the distance travelled from South Carolina overnight. The air was just chilled enough to bring a cool sensation to the layer of oily perspiration that’s a common result of non-stop, long distance train travel. His khakis were wrinkled and his DaVinci shirt was damp in the pits and had cracker crumbs on it.  The Arabs and Israelis had been going at it for 2 days and the Boston Globe hasn’t failed to take notice as “Shaky Cease-fire” grabs Kovach’s attention on a bundle carried from the back of a delivery truck.
            He reached into his trouser pockets for a soft pack of non-filtered cigarettes, or what was left of them. He was down to three and they were a little worse for wear. Since the newsstand wasn’t open yet he made due with a crooked camel and smoked the end that would deposit the least tobacco flakes onto his lip. He headed towards a donut shop that had just lit up on the twilit street in hopes of hot coffee and a cake donut… and maybe a cigarette vending machine. This brief stop would quiet the rumbling in his gut for a while.  It was 4am and he’s still got to take a bus up into New Hampshire to chase down an ancient legend.

            Kovach wouldn't call himself an archaeologist but he works for one. He’s a procurement specialist. Archaeologists use shovels; Kovach uses cunning. His moral code won’t keep him from getting what he's looking for by way of a few bruises, but he hasn’t had to resort to violence since he started working for Dr. Donald Cortland, A famous archaeologist at Welkes University. Welkes is a small school that Cortland had made rather famous in the years since World War II. Cortland built his career on revealing mound civilizations along the Mississippi, finding villages carved into caves and artifacts to compliment and refresh dozens of potentially lost Native American legends. Dr. Cortland was getting becoming a bit frail and so he hired Kovach to do most of the footwork and heavy lifting. Cortland was the brains and Kovach was the brawn.

            This morning was the beginning of a typical job except that Kovach had minimal funding to expedite the task… it would only be an overnight trip but nonetheless, he never had to take a coach car on the train and he could usually hire a Cadillac, or an equally comfortable boat of a car, to go place-to-place in style and comfort. He was going to a quarry town called Milford to meet an Indian. This particular mission has been deemed hopeless by the archaeology department heads and thus the school has pretty much granted minimal funding for this trip… then again, this is Alfred Kovach’s twelfth trip on the heels of this legend. And because of the Spartan budget of for trip he was beginning to agree with his financiers. But this artifact was important and he and Cortland had a lot riding on its retrieval            

            The bus came to a stop outside of an old Texaco station along a conifer-wooded stretch of black asphalt. There was a man in an old 40s model Chevrolet pickup waiting there. It took him a minute to realize it but soon it became was clear that the driver of the pickup was his contact. A man got out of the truck. He looked a bit taller in the truck but when he emerged from the cabin, he shrunk a few inches. The man was old and dark skinned, clearly Native American. His skin was wrinkled to the point that you could assume that the wrinkles were used for holding wisdom and memories that his brain could no longer accommodate on account of it was full. The man put on a fedora over his immaculately straight white hair and he walked over to Kovach.

           “Mr. Kovach, I presume. My name is Robert LeFleur” The man extended his hand for a handshake and Kovach reciprocated.

           “LeFleur… huh… I thought you’re name would be more…Indian.” Kovach chided gruffly. The cake donut in Boston gave up about an hour and a half ago and he was grumpy and wanted a proper breakfast. Kovach lost his charm filter when he was hungry.

          LeFleur snapped back snidely “What, like Ghandi?  The Abenaki people have been using European   names for so long that only a few of us still remember the old tongue. I haven't forgotten the old tongue of the hollow land… but white folks respond to “Robert”  better than “Sits On Cloud.“                                                      There was an awkward silence. LeFleur tried to get a read on the tacky behemoth of a thug in front of him. He smelled like stale cologne and hair product... an offensive odor to any civilized being, yet as they paused Kovach somehow projected a spirit of superiority which caught the old Indian off-guard. something that would plague his mind for the coming hours.                                                     

          “Fair enough” Kovach said with a shrug. “I need you to help me as a guide but first I believe you know where I might find the lovely Ruth Darlington.”

            LeFleur knew where to find Ruth Darlington. Cortland had come around this way to see her many times. She was more or less homebound due to her age and health problems.  He agreed to take Kovach there only after a stop at the local Diner for some greasy breakfast.

            At the diner Kovach ordered runny eggs over biscuits and sausage gravy. Nothing fired him up for a hunt like a heart-attack on a plate. After his long journey he could have gobbled up two plates. Robert LeFleur nursed two slices of toast, some melon and some black coffee. Kovach wondered how a man could live to be so old eating like a bird.
          The diner was cozy, it had various photos on the wall of a man posing with local farmers with gargantuan award winning gourds, pigs and cows. They made him stop for a moment and contemplate what was in his sausage gravy. He noticed one of the pictures featured LeFleur with what seemed to be a local politician, the restaurant owner and a group of traditionally dressed Abenaki standing in front of a field of granite caverns and monuments. He asked Robert what it was all about.

           “That was from 30 years back. The state promised to protect our ancestral burial ground just outside of town. Since the white people came, my family has been in charge of keeping them off of this place. It has a strong mystical bond to my people and is cursed. It is not a very big place but it is important to us. The government has been very sensitive to our demands about tit ever since the colonial times.”

            Kovach scratched his chin. “Yes I think Dr. Cortland mentioned this place once in one of his rambling lectures about the Indians. That is here in Milford? “

            LeFleur could sense something in Kovach’s question that suggested he already knew the answer and much more. Mister Kovach was a sneaky sort; LeFleur knew right away why Doctor Cortland liked to use him. Cortland was intelligent and tactful when it came to asking about the burial sight, he was honest about his interest in it.  Kovach was a liar. He came off as a bit of a twit, sometimes he would bumble around saying he was looking for one thing but winds up “lost” in sacred landmarks all over the country sticking his nose in places it didn’t belong.  He wasn’t as dumb as he presented. Whenever people though they were rid of him or when they thought they threw him off the trail, Kovach would be off with some prized relic that many didn’t know they had in the first place. However, LeFleur had a very good idea what Cortland was after in Milford and he resolved that Kovach was not going to pull the wool over this old Abenaki Elder’s eyes.

               

"Savages may indeed be a formidable enemy to your raw American militia; but upon the              king's regular and disciplined troops, Sir, it is impossible they should make an impression." Gen Edward Braddock

June, 1760- Portsmouth, New Hampshire

               

                Lieutenant Edward Miller signaled for his detachment of twenty five men to wait outside of the town to the north and set up a camp. His men were hot-headed and did not tend to represent the army well well in busy streets. Miller had other reservations about bringing them into town though; staying at a comfortable tavern would likely soften them up before the long expeditions they made into the wilderness. His men were hardened and many were frontiersmen. They weren’t good soldiers and were an embarrassment to their colors (when they wore them), but they could survive a long time in the wilderness with minimal supplies, deftly avoid ambushes and traps and they could interact with the savages that peppered the frontier; the perfect soldiers for Miller’s command. Miller, however, was dignified. He kept clean, shaved, spoke softly and with dignity and did the crown proud as an officer among the British Regulars. Though his detachment was rough around the edges,their results spoke more loudly than their character flaws. Miller secretly fancied himself as their one valid link to any civility that the men might have.

            He swept the riding dust dust off of his black boots and red jacket and walked briskly along Market Street into the cobble-stoned Center of town. His Destination was the Royal Governor’s Mansion on the other side of the Harbor. He would walk into town far enough to be seen by some other officers and upstanding merchants along the way and then he planned to hire a horse near the North Church and ride to Governor Wentworth’s home. Miller felt entirely comfortable in his saddle and he liked the way his decoration and equipment rhythmically kept time at a liberal trot, it spoke a lot about the ordered way he carried himself and added to the conundrum that surrounded his insistence on his handpicked unit of musky frontiersmen.

            When he got to the Governor’s house he was greeted by a black slave boy who took his horse to the stable in the back for him. Miller thought it was remarkable how such a tiny boy was so good with guiding the horse that was easily twice his height. As the slave-boy walked away Miller noticed that the boy carried crumpled pages of a bible sticking out of his pockets with random scripts and scribbling in the margins. Miller was reminded of his two minds about slavery: When he was in the Carolinas slavery was a filthy and despicable institution where the Negro was more a commodity than a man. In the northern colonies Miller could find little wrong with institution of slavery but there were also many negro families that had started homesteads in the wilderness and all of them were willing to put up the ragtag band of soldiers without coercion or threats of invocation of military privilege. Nevertheless the small slave boy reminded him of how he had vowed never to buy a slave and hire freedmen to tend his small estate in Massachusetts.

            He approached the front entrance of the governor’s house and was met by a kindly older white woman who seemed to be the main housekeeper. She must have been recently promoted as she had a bit of soot under her eye and silver polish on her apron and carried on like a servant girl fearful to make eye contact with the Governor's guest. Miller liked the idea of being distinguished; he didn’t start as an officer, he spent a long time working hard, proving his worth in the long standing war with the French under the direction of Commander in Chief William Amherst in the colonies along with Great officers like William Howe and Henry Clinton… of these men he was the only one who wasn’t born of any particular hereditary distinction. A little deference from the “common folk” was always welcome however unwarranted.

            Lieutenant Miller was shown up the stairs to the Office of Governor Benning Wentworth. He had been here before but got the distinct impression that his presence in the mansion was only tolerated because his commission came directly from Commander Amherst himself. The Governor was not at his desk but seated in a conference area near a window. His chair was cushioned and upholstered with red velvet and silken gold rope trim to cover the seams. Across from him may as well have been a rough-hewn stool (probably used for cleaning and reaching by the staff) but it was upholstered with a cushioned but worn leather top riveted to the seat. The governor gestured to the stool; Miller took on the appearance of looking slightly insulted. "Please excuse the seat, the chair is being upholstered."
             Miller took the seat with all of the feigned graciousness he could muster a skill he learned very early on in his service to the King. Wentworth flipped over a stout glass on a felt-topped walnut side table and filled it with brandy and handed it to the lieutenant, he clearly was not without a sense of decorum and hospitality. Miller noticed that Governor Wentworth’s seat gave the slightly shorter man quite a height advantage in the conversational setting over the lowly officer sipping brandy on a work stool.

            “Right, Lieutenant” The governor braced his hands against his knees and leaned forward, talking down to Miller, “I don’t have time to mince words with you, Miller." Miller observed beads of sweat rolling from under Wentworth's powdered wig. "The only reason I have to pull you and your shabby scoundrels away from the frontier is a matter of importance to the west that requires the special expertise of your detachment.” Miller’s interest piqued regardless of the derivative tone of the colony’s administrator. “I have received a report of a raid by Abenaki savages on a new settlement on the outskirts of Amherst. It was a mining settlement that I had chartered to a friend… he had summoned for aid but I fear the settlement is done for.” To Miller, the Governor seemed more disturbed by the potential loss of life than the loss of a settlement which momentarily halted any distaste that Miller held for the man. “I am dispatching your men to the  Boddington Mines, to secure the settlement and see to it that the people of Amherst can safely and properly bury the dead.”   

            “Sir, the Abenaki are closely allied with the French… they may have military support from Quebec and I only have 25 men” Miller was about to continue but was cut off “Lieutenant , Amherst is not some fringe frontier trading post, it is deep within the New Hampshire territories… an Indian raid on a fledgling copper mine would be pointless as they would have to pass by a number of our fortifications to access it.” Wentworth sat back in his chair “…Survivors reported a small raiding party of no more than ten that struck from the forest at mid day, they were not your typical warriors… they were older and fought with knives and hatchets. They killed the people, burned the buildings and left. Nothing was taken as a war token, not even scalps.”

            “If what you say is true, sir; Why not send a detachment of regulars from Manchester or call up the local militias?” Miller’s solution sounded obvious in his head. Why would Wentworth need his specialists who would be better suited back out patrolling for war parties and ambushes around Lake Champlain? Miller was actually less interested in that than how his specialized detachment got called up for burial duty.          The Governor surprisingly took a tone of agreement with Miller’s gripe. “You are right Lieutenant Miller but unlikely as another raid will be, I have no choice but to call up the militias to stand guard and defend their own towns and, thanks to the French, the regulars at Dover, Manchester and Nashua are spread too thin to send out an expeditionary team. Yours was the only one not tied up with specific orders… and if it was Indians maybe your men can get some answers as to why the raid took place.”

           Miller finished the remainder of his brandy in a gulp put his hand on the scabbard of his saber and stood up from his squat seat… he could feel a slight numbness in his haunch that took a second to subside. He gritted his teeth behind his lips extended his hand into which the Governor placed an envelope containing his deployment orders for Miller and the people of Amherst. “Very well Your Honor, I will take my leave and see your orders carried out.”

            Miller was doing a worse job of containing his malcontent at this point. He hastily saw himself down the stairs and out the front door which he opened himself not bothering to wait for the humble house servant. He then continued around the back of the house to the stable where the small slave boy was giddily trying to stomp on a mouse in the stable. The second he saw the Lieutenant in his red uniform he ceased his murderous rodent rampage to attend to Miller’s horse for which Miller palmed the boy two copper farthings with a portrait of King George.

            By the time Miller had gotten back to his men he was on foot again. The sky was growing dark and some of the men had a small a group of local female company sitting on some of the burlier men’s laps and at their sides. Many of them were using their now filthy red coats as bedrolls or as impromptu upholstery for log benches. They preferred skins and coarse fabrics instead of the decidedly fine yet alarming and unmistakeable uniform, the one military perk Miller's soldiers took advantage of was the armory of superior firearms and plenty of available powder and shot The men delayed to meet the expectations of their commanding officer for a moment but quickly snapped to attention as the ladies scurried away. Miller had not needed to say a word. Many men were still holding bottles of rum but gave Miller their undivided attention. “Sober up, gentlemen. We pack up in the morning head for Amherst on horseback.”

            By the time Lieutenant Miller and his men reached Boddington Mines it was weeks after the raid. The people of Amherst were afraid to go near the settlement.  Miller's scouts learned about a small group of Abenaki that look over some sacred land near the small mining settlement and that they had made an agreement with many of the local colonists to stay away from the sacred lands. They assumed that the miners at Boddington Mines had violated this agreement and now 20 Men, Women and Children lay dead and bloated in the streets. His Soldiers were accompanied by a small detail of Amherst residents conscripted to tend to the dead. They had encountered the smell before they could even see signs of a village. As many rotting corpses as these men had encountered and still a few were affected by the odor and covered their faces with their forearms.as they vainly tried to thwart the scent. The residents were men and many of the had already stuffed face masks with garden herbs to disguise the foul air as they set to their task of tending to the rotting victims.
             As they came off from the path they saw an old Indian standing at the edge of the settlement. A few of Miller’s men pulled back the hammer on their muskets and a couple more went for their pistols as a parson suddenly grabbed onto the barrel of one of the muskets. He pleaded with the Lieutenant to allow him to speak with the Indian and he assured them that his men were safe for the moment. Miller instructed the minister in a voice loud enough for the indian to hear. “You will tell this savage that I have orders from the Governor to secure the settlement of Boddington Mines and bury the innocents that were killed… and I won’t mind going above and beyond those orders to avenge them.”

            The Indian stood quietly. His hair was long and black tied up into a top-knot that formed a ridge at the top of his head. His forehead was large and painted with a solitary horizontal black line that rode across the top of his brow; it appeared to be a tattoo. He wore a shirt of green dyed animal hide that was bound with bands of beads around his forearms and biceps, the back of the shirt was adorned with crow and eagle feathers across the seam that went from shoulder to shoulder. The man wore pants made of a coarse fabric and deerskin leggings also bound by beaded bands. He held a large steel hunting knife and a gunstock club hung from a cord around his waist.  He stood with a strong demeanor that projected strength and courage that betrayed his 5’5” frame. In practiced English, the Indian spoke:

            “The people of this settlement attempted to mine into our sacred land. We had warned them with explicit instructions to heed our requests. The people of Amherst also warned them. Three weeks ago my brothers and I were forced to kill two men who scouted into our sacred burial ground. Another party came out to search the stones afterwards and we decided that the village must be killed. You may take the bodies and remove their filth from here but then you will leave this place and never return. We are the guardians of this land, forget about it and we will leave you be.”

            Miller knew more than to cross Indians over sacred tribal lands but he had a plan brewing in his mind that ended with him as a hero. He agreed to the Indian’s conditions for the moment but instructed three scouts to tail the Abanaki man to his camp when this was over and return with its location. He entered the wreckage of Boddington Mines under the close watch of the Indian guardian who later, when satisfied that his supervision was not needed, disappeared into the dark forest. He instructed his men to assist the townsfolk in loading the corpses onto some carts and they took them to a suitable grave site. There was little a pine box could do to stem the havoc that two weeks of exposure to sun and rain had wrought. The bodies were placed without hastily-prepared pine coffins side by side in three mass channels, some loose heads that couldn't be matched were placed randomly among the bodies. Large Rocks were used as head stones and the minister read the last rites and gave them a funeral service en masse. By the time they were finished piling the rest of the dirt, Miller’s three scouts returned from their mission. 

            The men hadn’t bothered to set up camp. Once the last of the townsfolk had left the mass grave site, Miller and his men were already on their way to the Indian camp. There was no way that such a brazen act and defiant attitude from the natives would be tolerated, here in New Hampshire nor out on the frontier. A few of the men left their muskets behind and doubled up on pistols a couple left most of their gear behind and carried hatchets, knives and swords. One man stayed behind to guard gear, horses and provisions for the journey home.
           The scouts led the war party to a clearing that was littered with stone monuments of granite. Slabs of granite, ten feet tall, were growing from the ground in a symmetrical pattern. Two stone altars were stained dark red and covered with the disemboweled and heavily decomposed remains of what was presumed to be the two men that initially disappeared from the village… it was clear that coyotes and crows had not been through to clean up the remains.

            When Miller came to think of it these, as well as the other corpses, were left to rot… animals had left them alone regardless of them being outdoors in the woods. Then it hit him… these woods were strikingly quiet for the middle of June. There were no crickets and frogs singing nor was there even any hint of the mosquitoes that swarmed men this time of year… there was just silence and the smell of death. Whatever was at work here had an astounding effect on nature as well as the minds of the natives. What ever was at work here had Miller very nervous.

            A few of the men searched some compartments carved into the rock while others scouted the perimeter and took defensive positions in anticipation of an Indian attack. Miller looked around and found something in an alcove of the central granite slab between the altars. There was an object wrapped in animal hide, he could not see what it was, but something told Miller he wanted it. He took the object in his hands and removed the animal hide to reveal a human skull that was covered with wooden rune stones much like the ones used by ancient pagans in England .
           There was something that awakened in Miller, this skull was significant and he must keep it always. The others within the ruin seemed to have the same idea as they started to take interest in Miller's discovery. Its eyes were empty but Miller felt compelled to look into the sockets and he began to feel rage and an animal-like instinct for self preservation, he held the skull in his left hand and with his right, he drew his pistol.

            The men on the perimeter were startled to hear a shot go of within the stones… then one after another, multiple gunshots rang out as the guards ran to the commotion. They came to the altar to find that Miller was standing over the bodies of five men and fighting off seven more very capably with his cavalry saber. In his tucked within the grasp of his arm was a human skull that the men quickly felt the need to fight for. The skull was covered with blood… Miller was covered with blood, his own. Shot at least once and stabbed and cut a number of times, the possessed lieutenant fought with the vigor of a Greek demigod…as If he felt no pain. 
            One by one the perimeter guards were felled by silent blades that moved without a sound through the rough grass. The abenaki were making their moves now like gentle tidewaters they seemed to pulse through the grass and stones without making a sound and seeping into the shadows like the water into the tidal sands when they stopped. With the rear guard taken care of they could observe and plan.

            They saw what Miller had discovered and quickly joined the assault on the officer. The mysterious power of the object lures the soldiers to fight for it but the guardians have undergone conditioning to be near the skull and still keep a clear mind. They assault Miller and his team to make sure that the skull doesn’t leave that sacred place. This was their goal and sole purpose.
             Within minutes the prevalent noise of the location turned from the clash of steel and the cries of men to silence. Miller had fallen and the one remaining guardian was the man who struck that blow. The soldier who guarded the gear never endeavored to seek his companions he knew that from the sounds of gunfire and their failure to return that he was the last of them. He stayed in Amherst, started a family and feared to enter those woods for even a moment for the remainder of his life. The guardian that stayed behind knew that his brothers had done what they were meant to do. He selected a new group of young and strong-minded warriors and trained them on the mysteries of that site to ensure that no man ever entered those lands again.

June 6^th, 1967- Milford, New Hampshire

             

           After breakfast, Robert LeFleur took Alfred Kovach to meet with the elderly historical steward of the town, Ruth Darlington. She lived in a small one-story cottage next to the town meeting hall with a placard that read “Historical Society of Milford” with Ruth listed as the curator. Kovach had freshened up a little bit at the diner, he changed his shirt and combed some pomade into his thick and plentiful brown hair. LeFleur left Kovach in order to attend to some other business. He left Kovach in front of Ruth’s place and drove up the road.
             The old Indian parked the truck by the post office/town store and walked back toward where he left Kovach but through the yards behind the houses and other buildings that lined the street. Making his way to the back door of Ruth’s Historical Society cottage and leaned in by an open window where he could hear the conversation between Kovach and Darlington.

            Kovach asked about the old Abenaki camps, places that Cortland had already excavated. Ruth mentioned an old settlement called Boddington Mines and talked about the massacre grave and told the story about the mysterious disappearance of the British detachment that had recovered the bodies from the sacked village. She gave him a map that Cortland had drawn two years earlier for the Historical Society. Kovach saw that the off-limits area of stone monuments was clearly marked with a subtle subscript number one. Cortland would put numbers on certain features of the map as a reference to places that he could not go but really needed to investigate. Those locations were usually marked with numbers because they were an inconspicuous marker for points of interest, unlike an “X” on a treasure map. Kovach was employed because he has a knack for gaining access to the numbered places.

            Kovach took the map with him as he walked out the front door and LeFleur returned to the post office in time for Kovach to walk into the general store portion of the wooden building. Kovach bought a flashlight, a laundry bag, some crackers a bottle of Jim Beam and (with protest) filtered cigarettes… smokes were smokes at this point. When he noticed Robert by the lunch counter he sauntered over and asked for a ride to the woods on the outskirts of town the next morning.

            The next morning LeFleur picked up Kovach and drove him out to the woods. The calculating silence of the cabin's occupants almost drowned out the 30 year old engine’s noise. The morning was humid and a thick layer of dew had covered everything making the road seems like it was dampened by a brief rain shower. The morning sun was burning bright as it poked out around the hills and dried whatever portions of the road it had touched. Le Fleur dropped Kovach at a fire road entrance that would lead him to the camps.  Kovach went off about his business without a word.

            When the old Indian drove away, Kovach headed directly to the place on the map labeled with the number one. As he passed through some dense forest he found in the underbrush granite stone foundations that were presumably the remains of Boddington Mines. Kovach noticed that the sound of nature had ceased. All creatures, including insects were nowhere to be found. Kovach worked his way through the dense forest until he reached a clearing of tall grass and granite slabs standing at least ten feet tall from the ground. Even as the sun reached through the thick pine canopy into the clearing and warmed his face, he felt cold and anxious tension pulled at his chest. He wanted it… it felt like anticipation to him and he couldn’t hold back a smirk that could have stayed plastered on his lips for hours. Something drove his body beyond his conscious motivations as if he were a living marionette and he was loving every minute of it.

            Kovach approached the monuments and tripped on what felt like a root of some sort, he reached into the tall grass and pulled a long human femur from the ground and quickly felt around to locate more bones and finding them as well as a musket some gold buttons and eventually finding a skull that had been bashed in on the back side. By the time Kovach reached the monuments he had collected a slew of colonial armaments that were heavily soiled and aged but seemingly unbothered by nature but the bones he found were clean and bleached white by the sun; some skeletons were still in old and sun-baked clothes but their bones were stripped and dried. The weapons he could find were surprisingly preserved for their age and one particular officer's saber he found could certainly fight another day. He would add that to his collection and sell the rest off to collectors and museums.

            On two stone altars he found at the foot of the monuments were patches of black moss, crusty jade colored lichens and scattered human bones. In front of the altars was another pile of bones clothes and weapons that had, over time, become a heap of human wreckage. In this pile Kovach counted a number of skulls and various weapons and garments but most notable was the brilliantly crimson jacket of a British officer and an officer’s brass gorget engraved with the seal of George’s Royal Army. Amidst this pile of bones was a skull unique to all of the others, it was tiled with wooden runes that seemed to Kovach to resemble something the Vikings would keep around. It was his quarry. He looked into the empty eye sockets of the skull and, just like Cortland told him would happen, he made the connection and turned immediately around as if being controlled to head into town. The skull was guiding him to Cortland. 
           It whispered and occasionally made promises to Kovach. Promises of power, promises that corresponded to each of Kovach's secret desires. He held the skull under one arm, at this point wrapped in some found leather. In his other was the trusty saber he picked up from the tall grass. The laundry bag full of his collection sloughed off his shoulder and landed with a loud clank, but he didn't notice and he wouldn’t have cared if he did.

            LeFleur stepped out of the woods almost as if he had appeared from thin air. He carried an old gunstock club in his hands and put himself in the path of Alfred Kovach. Kovach stopped and scowled a little at the old guardian. “You will go no further” LeFleur stated calmly and gestured his club in Kovach’s direction. Kovach walked a bit more upright than normal; he bared his teeth and stopped in his tracks as he locked his gaze on LeFleur.

            “You are the last guardian” Kovach spoke in Abanaki with voice that was not his “The guardians have kept us here, kept the conduit skull a prisoner…but now you are alone and we have found one who knows our purpose. “ Kovach snapped back to himself and gained control of his body and voice, but he did not look puzzled. He looked at the skull in his hands and glanced up at the old man with an ear to ear smile and tears in his eyes “I did it”

            “What did you do, Kovach?”LeFleur was puzzled. The skull was said to inspire uncontrollable rage and greed. Those who saw the skull were supposed to kill anyone that came near it. LeFleur and the other guardians spent time meditating over ancient runes that block their minds from the effects of the skull, but  how is Kovach different? “I am curious as to why, right now, you are not attempting to kill me with that sword in your hand?”

            Kovach casually walked back toward the monument as he began to speak the entity took control of his body once again “This one is one of us... one that lives in  the temporal world” Kovach looked back at LeFleur by craning his neck over his shoulder way past the natural range of motion.  LeFleur now understood what was happening. “We showed this one the key, the sigil. Now he is connected to us and maintains his vessel to serve the conduit… he sees what we see and knows what we know and will stop at nothing to unleash us unto the world of man.” Kovach grasped the skull tightly against his body, turned suddenly towards his opponent and charged with the saber outstretched. LeFleur reacted too slowly as per the limits of his elderly body and was run through. He didn’t feel any pain until the possessed man released the sword. LeFleur dropped to his knees.

            “Mankind is different now…” LeFleur spat out between stunted breaths “they will not succumb to the powers and suggestions that you will weild against them… they are smart: They will learn about the Arunga’atauk and will fight you even if it means destroying all they hold dear.” Blood began to come up the back of his throat and impair his breathing. Kovach reached down for the gunstock club that, earlier would have been used on him. It was old hardwood that had been lacquered and polished to a shine with a three-inch metal barb protruding from the end. Kovach raised the club with his free hand and stood over the fallen guardian.

            “They sound to us like they’ll meet our needs just fine. Now, Jailer...Oppressor: Join our Ranks!”

            The barb of the gunstock club fell with great force into the skull of the old Indian and he collapsed to the ground like a sack of bones. The puddle of blood that poured from his wounds was obscured and hidden by the tall grass of the silent clearing. The magic of this place was now departing and his bones would soon be cleaned by coyotes and insects as nature had intended.

June 7^th 1967- Cold Brook, Massachusettes

           

             Sheriff Kyle Borden called it in on the radio. A 1940s Chevy pickup with rust spots and New Hampshire registration stopped in the middle of the Route One Highway. Borden could see that the driver was inside and sat motionless so he called in an ambulance from the next town over and prepared to exit his vehicle. He opened the door and stepped out onto the asphalt. As he approached the disabled vehicle he could see that the driver was not moving and his eyes were closed and there were dried blood-stains on his skirt and shoes but his hands were cleaned… and in the passenger seat was leather bundle as big as a head tied with dingy red fabric.He pulled the wallet out of the man's khakis.
           "Well, well, well, Mister Kovach. Somebody's got some explaining to do..."

…To be continued.

Let me get some things straight: Depictions of Favela Life in media.

Quite a few folks have already visited my blog to see my story "Clarke of the Favela". I gave a lengthy explanation about the favelas in Brazil and how I was cautious to depict it in a way where it could be a place of happiness and of darkness.

I just thought I would share a couple videos to show off the favela that I was trying to create. the first is from the classic film "Black Orpheus" in which the slum can be seen as anything but a place of suffering though the poverty of the characters is clear. This is one of my favorite scenes in all of cinema.

The second clip is from a recent videogame called Max Payne 3. It is a well written pulp-style script it is also displaying a favela in a way that has been popularized by movies like City of God, Fast 5 and other action films as a gritty and violent wasteland with no order or hope.

This video is from Aljazeera television reporting on Favelas that are on the mend and shows us some reality. The reality of these slums is a combination of the previous two videos. It shows the violence that the favelas came to be known for but it also shows the spirit of the poor and how they can overcome their lot in life. This is a lengthy and in-depth report about the problems that the favelas face, but also how they can become safer places when the good people are given their communities back. This UPP program is clearly a blessing to most favela inhabitants but I would be naive if I didn't see this report as a bit propagandist.

Ultimately bringing a fantasy world to life in "Clarke of the Favela" was one thing I wanted to do, but I was also very conscious of the picture I was drawing of Brazil as I wanted the story to be fantastic but also a positive view of a place that many people came to fear. It looks as though Clarke's favela might have some truth to it though and I hope to see what Brazil has to offer in their upcoming performances on the world's stage.

"Clarke of the Favela"

Clarke of the Favela

By Nic Patrie

The favela… Though it is a sight that is hard to ignore in Brazil, people often overlook and misunderstand it. A place that is legendarily notorious but equally celebrated as part of Brazilian culture. It  is a densely populated maze of dusty paths and trails that meander around the steep and treacherous hillside. It is full of crime and derelict shacks but it is filled with good people as well, poor and downtrodden but making the best out of the blessings they have been given. There are people who will never accept the favela as their home, they are angry because they see the prosperity that hustles and bustles about at the base of the hill and know that those people fear to tread among the poor. There are people who seem to love their hillside shanty-town; there is a culture of survival here that is as much a facet of life in Brasil as it is of Rio de Janeiro herself.

Clarke lives here, in this favela. Clarke is ten years old and on his own for most of the week. His mother cleans the ladies restroom at the bus station. She has to charge people one real to use the facilities and she gets to take home some of what she brings in plus a meager wage. Clarke’s mother keeps a clean home in the favela. She only works, prays and makes sure that there is food in the icebox. She also manages to keep electricity in her shack thanks to a long-time friend who smuggles power in. Clarke’s father died before he was born. He was killed in an accident in the city where he was a courier on a motorbike; he used to give rides when he didn’t have a package to deliver and shared a cut with his boss to keep his job, but riding passengers on a little motorbike in Rio’s traffic can be a dangerous proposition and it proved deadly in the case of Clarke’s father.

His father gave Clarke his name, he was named after Supeman’s alter-ego Clark Kent. However, Brazilians have a hard time with words that end in hard consonants, so “Clark” became “Clark-ie” and thus it was on his birth certificate. Clarke knew of his namesake, though relatively obscure in Brazil, he managed to erect a small shrine to Superman with clippings, movie posters and comics from American newspapers like the New York Times. It was pasted and taped to the low ceiling over his bed. He internalized Superman… more importantly, he internalized Clark Kent as part of himself. Clarke saw himself as a good boy, mild mannered and morally upstanding. 

He had only a few friends because he didn’t want to be a beggar in the city. Clarke knew that inside of him was honesty and a desire to do well and thought that it was Superman living in him though his mother always called it “his father’s good spirit.” Clarke thought he could save himself and his mother from the favela. He saw them living on a farm with chickens and cows, just like Clark Kent’s family, leading a good honest humble life away from the crime ridden city of Rio.

Clarke saw the favela as a forsaken place. It was a slum filled with so many faithful people who seemed destined to suffer extreme poverty as well as wicked people who deserved to suffer. From the top of the hill which the favela was built on, Clarke could see “Christ the Redemer” keeping vigil over Rio on the top of Corcovado. His open arms and loving gaze were focused on the beaches and not on his home. He thought that, even with all of his goodness, Jesus had forgotten the good people of his home and got lost in his appreciation of beautiful, coastal vista that is Rio De Janeiro… which would be understandable if you saw the good side of town. Even with all of his resentment for his life in Rio, he never passed up a chance to go down to the beaches a symbolic equalizer as things went there.  Where everybody wore the same thing and occupied the same space, where no judgments about backgrounds could be presumed… especially during Carnival; a festival which Clark could never resent .

  

Clarke had a plan that would free him and his mother from the favela though. This morning he was on his way to the base of the hill to work towards achieving this goal. He could see the colorful gateway that marked the start of his favela, the dust from the dusty dirt roads met the pavement of streets of Rio in a gradient of sepia earth and asphalt grey. It seemed to imply that, though they were separate from Rio’s middle class in the slum, they were also part of Rio as a whole and cannot truly be segregated. He could see the gates and he suddenly froze. A horrid realization left his black skin pallid and felt a cold sweat crest on his brow despite the warm morning sun that was baking the hill…he looked at his two hands. In one hand he held a stick that he used to bang on the various corrugated metallic surfaces along the road like drums in the samba…his other hand was empty. He had forgotten it. Clarke had forgotten it and he can’t be late.

He chided himself out loud. He cursed his existence but quickly pulled himself together. If he ran, he could get home and get it and still make it on time. His mind raced frantically as he looked up the steep hill. Within seconds he started to plan his route. Unintentionally aloud he called on the Superman inside of him to guide his way. He called on Superman because Jesus always seemed so distant and infatuated with the ocean. He looked up the main road and saw that the Policia Federal had been making rounds up the main street of the favela. To Clarke they were not so much police as they were soldiers; they had armor, carried big guns and lots of bullets when most of the people here would be quicker to sell a gun for food than use it in a crime. Moreover, the soldiers would definitely react suspiciously to a little black boy running frantically up the hill with suspicion and they could pose a threat to the timeliness of this unscheduled task.

Clarke decided to calmly walk to the peripheral paths and alleys of the favela and make a run for it under cover of the shanties, away from people. It may take a bit longer but the plan seemed to hold less risk for delay than a chance encounter with the Policia Federal.  Clarke tried to act casual, like he saw in spy movies on the televisions at the bus station when he visited his mother. He went to stick his hands in his pockets when he remembered he had no pockets...so he hooked his thumbs over the elastic waistband of his shorts and tried to look natural about it as he strolled off the road and into the first side path he could. Though sure he didn’t have to put on the ruse, he could never be sure who was watching. Better safe than sorry. Once he was sufficiently concealed he bolted.

He wasn’t very athletic so running this fast uphill was quite a feat. He wasn’t surprised at his swiftness but he was channeling Superman after all. His body didn’t protest this exertion like it normally did, he wasn’t too winded considering his lack of athletic prowess. Soon there was a multitude of little stones that had already found their way from the dirt paths into his slightly over-sized slip-on shoes. The stones bounced around in his shoe with every heavy footfall and reminded him of a little shaker as he focused his running rhythm into a samba in his head. His mind was soon taken from his arduous race up the hill to a rhythm game that made him smile a juvenile gap toothed grin. Superman had taken control.

No sooner than the smile crossed his lips that he whipped around the corner of a shack and almost landed on a pack of stray dogs. He came quickly to a halt and started to back away, one foot behind the other. There were six males that seemed to be interested in mating one female, which seemed to have no interest in anything but finding food in piles of garbage. As one or two dogs took turns in unsuccessfully molesting the female the other four stared Clarke down, he tried to move past them but a little one started to snarl at him which prompted the others to growl. For Clarke, he would have to double back too far to make it home and back to his destination on time…he was blocked but had to make it through the pack of horny mongrels somehow. With his back against a shanty wall, he started to slide by the dogs, maintaining eye contact with a grizzled looking little one who seemed especially uncharacteristically scrappy and tough.

Clarke was caught by surprise when his foot kicked over a discarded plastic butter tub where a rat had been hiding. The rat took off up the hill past the dogs which suddenly lost interest in their mating prize. The female lost interest in ignoring them and all of the dogs took off in pursuit of the rat that led them far enough away from Clarke’s path for him to continue on his mission.  He lost contact with Superman when the dogs broke his focus. His chest hurt and he was breathing heavy, there was a pain from the dryness in the back of this throat and his saliva was thick and gritty with dust. He tried to run but found himself jogging and whimpering a bit as Superman seemed to have abandoned him and left the shell of a frightened ten year old black boy scrambling around the favela.  He pressed on and found his focus but the tempting odor of roasting chickens temporarily swayed his consciousness for a brief moment. The recollection that he hadn’t had fresh chicken in days dominated his mind for a second or two but it did not impede on his progress. He was almost home when another smell took hold of his olfactory senses.

He thought that these paths would be devoid of people because the main street up the hill is so busy with shoppers and sometimes tourists that lingering in the back alleys means missing good opportunities to make some money, honestly or dishonestly. Today there was a gang of boys in the back alleys. Clarke recognized them, they were older and he called them “The Bad Boys”. He called them this because they liked to harass, rob and beat the younger kids. There were a couple white boys and one or two dark skinned boys that weren’t from this favela, they likely came from the neighborhood at the base of the hill and liked to hang out and score drugs here. People who lived on Clarke’s hillside rarely made trouble so young people from the city tended to hang out there to do things that could get them in trouble in the city. Some favelas were really rough places, so he heard, but his was only rough when outsiders came in to start trouble…outsiders like the Bad Boys and the Policia Federal who think that poverty reduces people to punching bags. Superman would be furious and solve these problems but Jesus on Corcovado still won’t look their way.

Thankfully the bad boys had not noticed him. They were smoking some grass that they had smuggled into the slum. They brought it in to sell it but they usually smoked it all away before they could make a profit…that is why they robbed people. Today they were up to their usual trouble and were more interested in not getting caught by the policia soldiers than starting anything with Clarke today. Clarke just followed a path that concealed him from them and ran for home.

For all that he had gone through in his run up the hill; Clarke had made pretty good time. Time enough to change his filthy clothes that were caked with dust though actually he just changed his shirt from the filthy and sweaty one he put on this morning to the slightly less dirty shirt he wore the previous day. There was a covered plastic pitcher of water on the table where he dined with his mother every evening. Tonight she would get her weekly pay and she usually brings pizza on payday and although Clarke really wanted pizza, he really craved some of that roasted Chicken that was cooking slowly halfway down the hill. The water was warm but no less refreshing as his dusty run left him parched. He grabbed his objective from the table. A big old book filled with various loose papers spaced in between the pages. The book was secured with a leather belt that was cinched tightly around its binding, holding the contents in.

The leather belt belonged to Clarke’s father; it had a souvenir belt buckle from Uraguay, though Clarke silently doubts his father ever went there. Regardless, it was not very useful as a belt for himself, but it was good at keeping things tightly bound which is good enough reason not to sell it. Considering the size of the book, he wondered how he even forgot it in the first place. This book, that is so vital in his escape from the slum life, is not something he would soon forget again. 

The instant he left his shack the young boy pulled off his slip-on shoes and emptied the sandy contents along with all of the pleasantly percussive pebbles back to their home in the street and stuffed his feet back into the shoes. He had plenty of time to make it down the hill without the need for such a rush. He slung the book over his back and walked briskly down the hill. He was too tired to run anymore today so the easier brisk walk downhill suited him well.

The sun had slunk itself behind one of the thicker cumulus clouds in the sky which granted the baking hillside a brief moment of shade. Clarke made a point to look around when this happened because he liked to see when the people took the moment to stop squinting and look to the sky. People in his favela were constantly bombarded by the sun and hardly looked up, they looked down to the coastal city to take in a view, they looked down toward the ground when they walked… and when they were in church they look down at the floor to pray as if hell was their final destination. When the hill had its moments of shade, Clarke looked around to see the people look up, if even momentarily. It made the people look stronger and lighter than the burdens of poverty. He could see a faint glimmer of potential in the Favela in the brief moment of shade. If he could one day fly like Superman, he would use his super breath to blow clouds in front of the oppressive sun much more often so that the people could look up more.   

When the sun poked out again the rays caught a shiny coin on the ground which snatched up Clarke’s attention. Fifty centavos were just lying in the street a few feet away from him. He quickly snatched up the coin and looked around. He saw baskets of fresh orange-like bergamotas stacked up on a horse cart. The horse looked tired and frail, the cart had seen better days as well. Clarke wondered if the horse could appreciate the delicious oranges it had to haul up the hill, and if it could would it look any happier. Of course, Superman could haul this cart no problem…every day…but the sickly old horse was no superman. He found the owner of the cart and offered him the coin for some fruit. The old man was familiar to Clarke. He came up here once a week to peddle fruit; sometime bananas, sometimes papaya or, like today, bergamotas. He was a kindly man and always nice to Clarke’s mother and today his smile acknowledged a fond recognition of Clarke. He was just about to speak when the gang of dogs from earlier, miraculously still in pursuit of its elusive meal (which now has grown to three rats), barreled out of the alleys.

This moment in time froze for him. He could observe all of the details; the spark of fright in the eyes of the man and the horse alike, the fact that there were only five dogs bearing down on the rats of the original seven…the female was missing as well as the grizzzled little one… a presumably successful suitor.  The moment unfroze. The horse panicked and reared onto its hind legs and wound up falling over along with the cart. This knocked over the kindly old man who was almost instantly weeping as he watched hundreds of bergamotas, his livelihood, rolling quickly down the steep hill. Superman could have prevented this but Clarke stood alone, arm outstretched, with the appearance of offering payment for some fruit though, in reality, he is petrified with fear. As the dust clears and the horse is still trying to writhe free of its harness and the predicament. The incident has drawn the attention of the Policia Federal out of their trance-like patrol. They spotted Clarke and they have assumed Clarke to be at fault for the mess.

Instinct took over as Clarke darted into the alleys. The owner of the cart yelling to the soldiers but they have presumably ignored him and have already given chase. By this point the only thought that consumes Clarke’s mind is stories that he’s heard of children getting beaten within inches of their lives just for minor crimes. These are just stories, of course, because the news doesn’t care about kids getting beaten in the favelas. He is running faster now then when he started up the hill but the affect of gravity has made his stride a bit more clumsy. Some more hitchhiking stones have found their way into his shoes but this time they are not playing a rhythm, instead they are plain and bothersome for Clarke as he runs for his life. He can hear the kindly man yelling on the other sides of the shack: “Run Boy! Don’t Stop!” The kind support of the old man suggests that the horse cart disaster was clearly not his fault. The old man’s encouragement gives some ease to his flight but he was also in the zone, channeling the Superman within himself and easily navigating the maze of pathways and alleys a step ahead of his pursuers. The encouragement helps, but both Clarke and the kindly fruit vendor know that the minds of the soldiers are set just like the pack of dogs and, now that they have been chasing him for a little bit, are definitely going to make him pay with pain and blood.

Clarke felt like he had turned into the caped son of Krypton at this point. He ran at a pace where his feet are barely touching the dirt like he was flying. He was making decisions as if he had x-ray vision and could see around the walls and his super sense of smell kicked in. this triggered an idea for the perfect way to end this pursuit; Give the soldiers bigger fish to fry! Clarke picked up a whiff of the grass that the Bad Boys had been smoking earlier. The smell was sweet and pungent at the same time and so distinctively “illegal” that the Policia could not ignore it. He recognized where he was and ran toward where he saw the boys smoking before. Sure enough, the boys were still there and this time he had their attention.

“You Little Shit!” One of the boys exclaimed in an accusatory tone, he was aware that Clarke was being chased by someone and this could not fare well for his gang. The boys started to approach him and Clarke took two steps back only to find that he had hit a wall. One of the boys who had a smoldering loint hanging off of his lips pulled out a small steak knife from his jeans pocket and brandished it right up against Clarke’s upper lip. Clarke could swear that the two soldiers were right behind him but where were they?…did they give up? If so he was in for a worse fate at the end of this punk’s knife. The boys laughed with each other talking about what they would do with their new found piggy. Clarke lost control of his legs, his knees trembled and eventually gave way until he found himself sitting in the dust with his back against the corrugated steel siding of the chicken roasting booth…he didn’t smell chicken though just the smoke from the joint that the guy with the knife just passed to his brother-in-arms.

Superman abandoned Clarke yet again; he was a scared shell of a boy again. He started to pray to the Christ statue that refuses to look into his slums in hope that he will be spared and not left victim to the horrible injustices of this dusty maze.  Suddenly, he heard commotion in the alley…It was the soldiers!  They had finally caught up with him. Calling out taunts along the lines of what they were going to do with him when they found him. Many things sounded familiar to what the bad boys were saying and they weren’t particularly appropriate for ten-year-old ears, but poverty did not deserve professional restraint. He found that his dire predicament could gain a positive little boost in confidence knowing that his plan was so close to fruition. He found his legs again and he used them to kick against the sheet metal wall that he was cornered against. The noise was enough to attract the attention of the soldiers and when they finally caught up their attention was instantly swayed by the boys smoking grass and brandishing a knife. Just like the pack of dogs, they just as instantly gave up chasing Clarke as they made the decision to chase him in the first place.

Clarke got up and took to flight again without looking back. He could hear the metallic clank of the soldiers clubs making dull contact on bones through skin. The painful cries of the boys receiving the injuries until he got far enough away that the sounds were residual in his ear. Sounds that were vaguely reminiscent to of his idea of justice. A new slightly renewed faith in a certain iconic watcher of Rio de Janeiro came from a plan that was crazy enough to work. Mildly pleased with himself and thoroughly exhausted by his ordeal Clarke continued on his way.

 He made it out to the main dirt road right near the colorful gates, many of the bergamotas had found their way to the base of the hill, a reminder of the chaos that almost cost Clarke his life. He stood at the gate and looked in one hand…he had clung tightly to the shiny coin. He looked at his other hand, it was empty. He dropped the book in the commotion, now it could be totally lost. He looked down at the ground and observed the dusty bergamotas and meditated on his suffering. He understood why the people of the favela tended to look at the ground; it felt natural at the moment. Some of the bergamotas were squished and he found a cluster of some good ones that were whole and just a little dirty. He felt a large, coarse hand land on his shoulder that stopped him cold, he turned and looked to see the kindly old fruit vendor looking down and smiling at him. One of the old man’s hands held his book cinched in his father’s belt, dusty but unharmed. The man placed it into Clarke’s empty hand. Clarke, without delay and involuntarily revealed his big gap-toothed grin, and felt compelled to give the old man the coin as he picked up three of the undamaged fruits from the dirt. The old man chuckled in spite of himself.

 “ You are a good boy Clarke… Go on, now… don’t be late for school” he said.

The End