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“Vendetta”

The voice of Nick and his father became dimmer, as Uncle George watched their rowboat disappear into the horizon at the corner of his eye. He had a fat brown cigar in his mouth and struggled to light it with his old lighter. It was windy and the powerful gusts prevented the flame from igniting the dried and fermented tobacco. Uncle George’s arms had goose bumps down the sides due to the chilly winds and his fingers shivered in the air. It took a great deal of time, before the characteristic scent of tobacco began oozing from the tip of the cigar. Since Nick’s father had left, Uncle George had stayed to look after the Indian woman, who had provided the tribe with a new contribution, until the nurse would arrive. More and more of the male members of the tribe returned to the Indian shanty. They were all smiling brightly and exchanging words of their native tongue. Uncle George was unable to make out the words and instead chewed on the end of his Henry Clay, whilst his eyes squinted at the gathering.

Behind him at the shore were three middle-aged Indian men, who were preparing the next rowboat. They too were exchanging words but also peculiar body language. Under the many facial expressions loomed a foxy scheme. Uncle George raised an arm and ran his eyes across the bite marks in his wrinkled red-tanned skin. »Squaw b***h« Uncle George mumbled with a cigar still in his mouth. His diminutive eyes winced as he ran the tip of his finger across the injury. A bottle of Ridgemont Reserve clang in his drawstring leather bag. Uncle George reached a vacant hand inside the leather fabric and popped the cork of the bottle of firewater. While disinfecting the bite marks, more and more of the Indians disappeared from the shanty and went on about their business. Some proceeded to chop firewood whilst others began fishing for salmon. Their tools were primitive but their skills remarkable.


By the time Uncle George had chewed his way to the brand of his cigar, he was able to determine the reason behind the jovial tribe. The Indian woman in labor had survived childbirth and its tolls. The baby was a healthy newborn. The tribe pattern of giving birth to girls was finally broken and it called for celebration. A young strong Indian man practiced a perfect chop behind Uncle George. At the same instant the fishermen caught an extraordinary massive and substantial catch. The feast of tonight was ensured.

Uncle George blew an asymmetrical circle of smoke. The geometrical smoke spiraled towards the sky but was destroyed as a result of a native by-passing eagle in its pathway. Uncle George frowned.

The ashes of Uncle George’s cigar drizzled towards the dusty road, after he inhaled for the last time. Nothing but the mouthpiece remained. The solid material left his gout fingers and made contact with the infertile red surface of the earth’s crust. At the same time a rowboat came ashore. A young Indian teenager stepped out of the vessel, followed by a blond middle-aged white woman. Behind her an elder of the Indian tribe remained who had no significant facial expression. His face was wrinkled. Each wrinkle told an anecdote of its own, serving as a proof of his experience. The elder had the mouthpiece of a worn out pipe in his mouth. Uncle George raised an arm and greeted the woman welcome. She wore a white uniform and a white barrette with a red cross sewn into the fabric. Except from the waving Uncle George didn’t bother with formalities. As the slender woman walked up next to him, he informed her of the situation sticking only to the important details. »The Indian squaw« Uncle George began but paused, when he was met by a stare from the nurse in front of him. »The Indian woman survived child birth and the baby boy is hale and hearty« He continued and nurse-Lisa nodded in conformity. Her head was tilted to the left and was resting on one of her shoulders. The lips repeatedly closed and opened halfway, her head bobbing back and forth and her finger lifted. »The moment we are finished nursing the newborn, we need to discuss payment« His voice continued in succession, however never without sticking to the point. Lisa exhaled lightly. »Was a Caesarian necessary« Lisa inquired while her eyes widened and lifted her chin to face the doctor.

»The Indian mutineer wanted to come out head first« Uncle George said.
»Did you bring the necessary medical tools?« Lisa queried.
»Some, we had to improvise with the stitches« Uncle George replied.
»Improvise?« Lisa asked. She cocked an eyebrow and had a puzzled look on her face.
»Tapered gut leaders« Uncle George simply answered.
Noise came from the shanty. Lisa lifted a hand goodbye and rushed to the entrance of the Indian home. Uncle George’s eyes followed Lisa halfway but his attention was redirected to the group of three Indians by the shore. They called out to him. Uncle George looked over his shoulder one last time and traveled to his rowboat. The three Indians pointed at the shanty. Their attention was caught by the noise. Someone inside was yelling. Uncle George was not able to determine the language and instead shook his head. His hearing was becoming worse. Two Indians rushed towards the shanty and one stayed behind. The remaining one was a peculiar fellow and was stumping his foot impatiently.
»Go« Uncle George said.

The odd Indian understood him and shoved the rowboat into the water before walking away. The boat floated and was assisted only by Uncle George’s oak oars. He felt a cold sensation around his feet but ignored it for now. Halfway across the river the boat suddenly began to sink. Uncle George lowered his head and discovered several holes in the wooden boat. Water was gushing inside. Uncle George felt his body shiver as the boat sank completely. »Those filthy Bogans!« Uncle George yelled inarticulately as his lungs began to fill. Uncle George had never been taught swimming.

©Patrick Johansen, 2010.