Plans came to Macon. He would build a house to take her home to. They would have a bed of feathers and a real kitchen. A barn would house horses and cows. She would carry water from the stream to wash his clothes and cook his meals. He would farm again. They would grow their own food, food like she had shown him. Every night, he would fuck deep into her, making her scream from the pleasure of him. In return, she would give him children – sons; sons he would pass his farm on to, sons who could protect the land.
With each mile Macon walked in the forest, the woman grew more alive to him. Their life took shape as surely as the trees that grew in the forest. Everything about the woman had been seared into his memory: sight, smell, taste. He remembered the cave, the berries from the forest, the way she had pressed her body into his and let him breathe her breath. He understood everything she had told him without saying a word. The Elawa worshipped the birds in the sky and the animals in the woods. The gold charms they created were meant for worship, not trade. This was how they honoured the beasts of the forest, and in return the forest gave them food, shelter, warmth. Without uttering a word, she had conveyed a lifetime to him. All she had to do was look into his eyes with that piercing black stare and she was him.
Behind him, a twig snapped. Macon spun round, but there was nothing there. He looked into the sky and saw a crow circling – or was it a buzzard? The animal's wingspan was enormous, enough to block the sun. Macon squinted, shielding his eyes with his hand, but the bird was gone.
Another twig snapped, and his heart jumped into his chest even though he saw nothing. He ran, tripping over a root that stuck up from the forest floor. Pain radiated from his twisted ankle. Face down on the ground, he smelled the musky odour of darkness, of death. Underneath that, he smelled blood. He looked at his hands, shocked to see they were covered in blood. Was this from the squirrel? From the earth?
The ground vibrated against his belly. Behind him, the padding of four heavy paws shook the ground.
Macon scurried to stand, dirt kicking up in his wake as he stumbled deeper into the forest. The pain in his ankle was nothing as his mind reeled with possibilities. Something was chasing him; he heard the heavy gait of a large four-legged animal as it followed him through the forest. Was it a bear? A coyote? A lion?
His mouth opened, sucking in air; he tried to breathe as panic tightened round his chest. Macon chanced a look over his shoulder and stumbled again, this time catching himself before he fell. He heard something sigh behind him, and even as he ran Macon replayed the sound in his head, reproducing the sigh second by second, hoping for exhaustion, desperation, even pity. There was no denying the absence of all; whatever chased him was merely annoyed. Impatient. Stubborn. Hungry.
Another bird cawed in the distance, or was it the old medicine man with the blackened teeth? Macon 's mind flashed on the healer, the three globs of spit on the dirt.
'Lapacba ko wanee.'
I curse your seed.
Macon was so close to her. He could feel it, feel her wrapped around him in their feather bed. She would hold him inside of her, milk him, suck out his essence. The pleasures they gave each other every night would soothe away the pain and loneliness of his mountain existence. The Indian woman would give Macon what the other Indians had taken away. They would have their own family. Macon would hunt for them. Their sons would eat the meat and be strong. They would have a family. They would be safe from attack.
Was she calling him now? Was the woman saying his name?
He jerked round as a puff of air pricked up the hairs on the back of his neck. It was as if the animal was directly behind him. Chills ran through his body as Macon turned a complete circle, looking all around, trying to find his pursuer. His knees buckled and he caught himself against a tree. The bark was rough under his bloody hands. He looked at his fingers, the palms, the wrists… all smeared with blood. Whose blood?
'God damn you.' Macon sucked his fingers as he cursed the forest. 'God damn you to hell.'
He forced himself to move, his injured ankle beating out a protest along with his pounding heart. Another step, then another… he felt as if his ankle was on fire. The heat was burning him up inside, a fever taking hold like a steel vice around his leg. In front of him Macon saw the house where they would live. Could he see the woman in the distance, making her way towards him? Was she looking at the forest floor as she walked, her hands already filled with herbs and berries?
Macon put his hand to his crotch even as he stumbled through the forest. His cock burned when he thought of the gnarled old medicine man, heard the vicious curse in his head.
'Lapacha ko wanee.'
Dirty Indians and their dirty charms. That he could curse a man like Macon so easily when life itself was a curse. How else would anyone end up in this godforsaken mountain trying to live off this unforgiving land?
Up ahead! The house! It was their house! The yard was swept clean, chickens scratching at the packed dirt. A cowbell clanged and a dog barked, urging its master homeward. Tendrils of smoke came from the hole in the thatched roof. Macon ran towards it, but behind him his pursuer's gait matched his own, growing quicker, more impatient.
Another exhalation that sounded so like ' Macon ' that he turned his head. He stopped short, his breath knocked out of him by some unseen force. Suddenly, he saw things not from within himself, but from without and above. Macon stood there facing the woman. She was naked, the thick thatch of her pubis wet with the wanting of him. He moved for her but she pushed him back on to the ground and stood over him. All he could do was look up, his body frozen, rootbound to the earth. The woman straddled him, tore his clothes away.
'Yes,' he hissed as she impaled herself on him. He groaned, watching himself disappear inside of her again and again. As wet as she was, the tightness was almost unbearable. He heard crackling and rustling as the leaves around them circled into a spiral. The air grew thin and he struggled to breathe as his body began the spasm of release. He came so hard his teeth rattled, spit flying from his mouth. He reached out to touch her but her skin burned white hot, the blood on his hands boiling the flesh. Macon screamed from the pain even as pleasure convulsed through his body. The forest grew dark then finally black as his eyes rolled back in his head.
Spent, he could only lie there, his arms splayed to the side, angry welts festering on the tips of his fingers. Macon did not care. A startlingly clear calm washed over him, and he felt as much of the forest as he ever had; his body was one with the ground. Everything had sudden clarity: the creek gurgling in the background, the quiet noises of the forest, birds, insects, animals. He thought of his mother, the way she would wash her hair in the old iron tub then sit by the fire, brushing it out as it dried. He thought of his father sitting in his chair, whittling a toy for the brother or sister Macon would never have.