Sun, Wind, Lightning, Water
by Tommy Cheis
Four AM. Miami-Dade County was as quiet as it would ever be until the sun winked out forever. Cruising west on 41, I half-listened to the radio to block out the tumult. The Dolphins
hadn’t reached a contract with its first-round draft pick, a left tackle from the Hurricanes. The mercury was headed to ninety-six degrees in the shade, but afternoon thunderstorms were likely as they would be all summer. So much new construction had been built west of I-75 that county planners were contemplating a new expressway. A developer wanted to build atop an ancient Tequesta settlement. Human rights activists were pissed. When an advertisement for a Chevrolet dealer blared through the speakers, I killed the news.
Five minutes later I spotted a Miami-Dade County Sheriff unit hunkering near the Miccosukee Casino and Resort. He followed me west on 41. I stuck to the speed limit.
A mile down the road, I saw a homeless man offering work for food. I pulled over, felt under my seat, and produced a can of Coke Zero and an Indian River grapefruit. I rolled down the window and offered him both plus twenty bucks.
He rose from his plastic milk crate and crossed a dusty patch under the overpass.
Blues and reds flashed. A deputy keyed his bullhorn. Do NOT give him anything. Drive on!
What business was it of Johnny Law? I exchanged a look with the down-and-out guy, then completed the transaction. He mumbled thanks; I rolled up my window.
The siren squawked. PULL OVER! NOW!
Grapefruit was the official agricultural product of the State of Florida. The mendicant was thirsty. There but for the grace of Creator and Harold go I, I told myself. Wasn’t long ago, my Seminole and Chiricahua ancestors lived day-to-day too.
And I’d earned the right not to be cowed. Paid for it in blood. So I drove on.
The deputy mashed his crash cage into my rear bumper. GODDAMN IT PULL OVER!
I ignored him.
In under twenty seconds the road was blocked by four units. Four more joined my initial persecutor. Others blocked side streets. Above, a helicopter blinded me with a sun-bright spotlight. I’d made a future episode of a crime-fighting network TV show.
I threw the tranny into park, killed the engine, and tossed my keys out the window. Eight hands dragged me to the pavement, tore my shirt, bloodied my face, cuffed me rifled my pockets, and stuffed me headfirst in the back of a vehicle.
Flashes of palm fronds, tract houses, oil-stained pavement, auto upholstery.
Deputies jabbering like they’d collared Ted Bundy.
A punch to my occipital cortex.
I slid down the ladder of unconsciousness.
* * *
I was in formless darkness at the center of a black hole. A woman warbled gibberish. Or it was a whale sending long-distance love songs underwater? Volume came and went until I clearly heard Dr. Demi Diaz dispensing tough love in a human language.
“By colluding with Ina’s fantasy,” said Demi, the voice of authority, “you allow Ina to disown all responsibility.”
“I know. She uses the Bob Seger approach to decide what to tell me.” “What to leave in? What to leave out?”
“Yes, Demi.”
“Your wife reeks more of deception the more she admits about her trafficking ordeal.” “So she’s lying?”
“No. But she’s under attack by her own psyche.” “So she’s crazy?”
“You know we don’t use that word, Jimmy. Ina’s grievously damaged by five years of rape trauma. So I withdraw my previous advice. Don’t let her wait until she’s ready to discuss it. Confront Ina with the truth.”
“What is the truth?”
“You’re disappointed that the love of a good woman isn’t enough to heal your moral injuries.”
“You mean...
“Your war souvenirs.”
* * *
On Chokoloskee Island, I emerged from my reverie. Concussed, I vomited bile onto the asphalt. In a blink I felt great. It was just a bad dream shaped from the residue of microsleeps during the slight dissociations that accompanied driving a memorized route on visceral autopilot. But when I stepped out, the parking lot melted my boot bottoms. The sun blinded me.
I ran to my airboat and launched. The engine was deafening. The swamp air was hot and heavy and stunk of ancient muck. Razor-sharp sawgrass and thirsty melaleuca lined murky canals. Herons and egrets were torpid, too fatigued to fish. Turtles were enervated. Only squadrons of mosquitoes summoned the gumption to dive-bomb as usual.
Sweat soaking my clothes, I docked at Crazy Harold’s Chickee Huts in the deep Everglades. My 93-year-old Chiricahua/Seminole uncle sat in his deck chair, singing along with Gordon Lightfoot bemoaning that the feeling had gone and he just couldn’t get it back. I climbed onto the platform, hauled up my supply bag, and spread it before him. Canned foods. Cases of beer. Toiletries. Skin mags.
But he turned his head away from the loot as if I’d hauled in sewage.
I apologized for my tardiness.
“Why?” said the one-eyed man who lost the other orb, his left ear, and a third of his jaw to a Chinese grenade in Korea but gained the Medal of Honor. “Ain’t na time at tha origin. When ya last drank hootch, eh?”
“Can’t remember.” “Good. How’s ya wife?”
I didn’t bother asking how he knew. He had sight. “It was spur of the moment, Uncle.” “Good. Cause tha more ya think bout things, more ya fuck em up, eh?”
“But we’re having problems. I need your advice.”
Harold lip-pointed east. “Storm comin.”
“It’s summer in the Everglades. A storm’s always coming.” “Biggest ever, Jimbo.”
“The weather report said something’s brewing off the African coast.”
“Yep. Andrew were a breeze next ta what comin. A half-assed blow job.” He laughed into a wheeze. “Tha old days, we watch sawgrass. It bloomin? Hurrican three days off.”
“The sawgrass isn’t blooming.”
He scowled. “Elders use ta look at Sky ta know a big wind comin.” “Did that gift come down to you?”
“Hmm. Yeah but dint ask fa it.” “So how did the elders prepare?”
“Storm like what comin, ya cain’t. Use ta climb unner chickee hut roofs n huddle.” “Wind didn’t blow the roofs away?”
“Some. We wasn’t scared. Trees crashin n storm surge flattenin everthin a part a life.” “Is that what happened in 1935?”
“N a coupla others since. What comin? He a man killah.” “How do you know he’s male?”
“Apollo ain’t no sissy.”
“Then come stay with me in Miami.” “Fuck Ima do in a city, eh?”
“See a doctor.” I had in mind a gerontologist. Harold was moving further into dementia.
“Why?” He spat anger. “Ya see me jus fine. N I ain’t livin through this hurrican. Beer me.”
I fished a beer from a cooler gunked with fish scales and stale beer, popped the top, and handed it to him.
He gave me no thanks, just some stink eye. “Talk bout Ina.”
I compressed our backstory and the run of recent events into a minute. Childhood sweethearts. Losing touch after 9/11. A message from the blue a decade later. A rescue. A quick marriage. Human traffickers bent on silencing her. “So what do I do, Uncle?”
“Same what ya did on tha playground.”
“When I beat up ten classmates attacking her? I was nine. I gave up violence long ago.” “Hope not. Shit run deeper’n she tol ya sa fa. Get worse afore it get bettah.”
“She’s hiding something.” “Ya is too.”
“Like what?”
“What ya did in tha war.”
“If she knew about that, she’d want nothing to do with me.”
“Bullshit. Ya perfick fa each otha. Why ya need gory fuckin details bout what they did ta ha? Cain’t take na leap a faith?”
“I’m agnostic”
“Then rememba this. Ya save Ina. Now she ya responsibility.”
“I knew she was traumatized. But everything else seemed perfect at first.” “When don’t it?”
“But I think I made a mistake.”
“Why? She bring disaster ta ya househol?” “Sort of.”
“Ain’t ha fault. Ya weren’t there ta protect ha, ya coward.” I burned bright with shame.
“Ungrateful heartless mutherfucka.”
“That’s harsh. I don’t need name-calling. I need guidance.” “Why? Ya nevah listen ta no one cep ya sef.”
“Try me.”
“Shit Jimbo. Some folks need killin.”
“Adherence to that precept landed my father in Old Sparky.”
“Ya ain’t jus a doctor n Indian chief no more. Ya a lawyer too.” He cackled.
“Isn’t the hardest part of becoming a man knowing when to fight and when to walk away?”
“Fuck Kenny Rogers. A fight comin whetha ya like it a not. Embrace it. Ya sa fuckin good at battlin.”
“That was a long time ago. Maybe I should run my airboat to Cuba.”
“N become a refugee from tha human race? Shit. Neitha pacifism na militarism is holy, Jim. Both situational. Both get people killt. Don’t think if ya cop out ya bettah n everone else, cause ya worse.”
“Harold Panther preaching war. Wow. You know damn well what happens in combat.”
“Ya know as well as me. Mayhem. Maimin. Death.” “I’ve had way too much of that.”
“Ya dont get ta decide if ya had enough. Evil sumbitches what hurt Ina done voted ya anotha ration.”
I sighed. “Tell me I’m on the right side of things.” “Close anyone evah been.”
“Is there no nonviolent way?”
“Shit. Ya creative n smart. Ya want out, ya gone find a cosmic fuckin rationale ta dodge bloodshed.”
“Such as I was born to help people and not hurt them?” “Hippocrates was a pussy. Go. Take off runnin n don look back.” “I can’t.”
“Then maybe ya gotta hurt some people ta hep others. Fuck it. Shuttin up then. Ain’t my show.” But then he snarled and kept going. “Got a question fa ya.” “Shoot.”
“Who tha fuck is Jimmy?” “What?”
Harold waved his hand in disgust. “Ya sa fuckin smart but caint understan plain talk. Try this. What terms n conditions of existence will ya acccept? What’ll ya give up n what’ll ya fight ta hold?”
“I don’t understand.”
“No man does til Creator puts him in tha definin moment, eh? But ya best figger ya self out quick. Storm a-comin.”
“So you say.”
“If ya too weak ta rise ta a challenge, is my fault fa wantin somethin better fa ya. Tryin not ta repeat tha past, I fucked up along a whole notha vecta. I oughta pologize ta ya daddy.”
The sun sizzled. Sweat ran into my eyes. “You crafty old skin. Is this a test?” “One ya cain’t study fa.”
“What are the right answers?”
“I dont even know tha fuckin questions. Creator wrote em. He gone tally up tha results. Oh wait. Ya’s agnostic. Then author n judge ya own existence. Write ya story how you want. Ya can be tha good guy or tha villain.”
“With all due respect, Uncle,” I said, then quit.
He knew what I intended, and ulled back his hand as if to slap away my disrespect of an elder. But then he dropped it “Gotta stop thinkin n act, Jimbo. Stop chasin what ya want. Start chasin what ya need.”
“Explain.”
“Do tha right thing again like ya did on that playground, ya die at peace in old age. Fa from tha sea.”
“If not, I’ll drown soon?”
“N everythin ya built n everone ya love.” “Then the stakes are life and death.”
“Always was, is, n will be. Make no mitsake bout it.” Harold chuckled. “Gimme a beer.”
I snagged a Red Stripe from his grimy cooler and put it in my uncle’s calloused mitt.
He snapped it open and shotgunned the brew.
The weather report began. Highs in the mid-90s, lows in the low 80s. Chance of afternoon precipitation forty percent. A tropical depression two hundred miles west of Cabo Verde had intensified into a storm with 49 MPH winds moving slowly west. Taking precautions, the South Florida Water Management District had begun pumping water from Everglades canals into the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexicamerica.
Harold grunted. “Tha’s him. Apollo a monstah.” I tried again. “What about Ina?”
“It ain’t obvious, ya blind.”
“Says the man with one eye gone and the other failing him. Hell. I’m sorry, Uncle.” “Dont make na nevahmine. Tell ya a story ya want me ta. Like old times.”
“Please.”
“Snag a beer n sit ya red ass down.” He smacked a chair.
I snagged another Red Stripe, sat, and sipped. He hawked into the creek.
A catfish burst from the murky water and vacuumed his sputum.
My uncle’s laughter shapeshifted into paroxysms of hacking. He went blue. I jumped up and started CPR.
He shoved me off. “Fuck ya doin?” After a bit, he launched into one of his ancient Indian fables. “Way back, tha Chiricahua was threaten by Monstahs.”
“You taught me the origin story. Remember? Child-of-Water slew them.”
“Shut ya yap. Ain’t talkin bout Buffalo, Eagle, Antelope, Elk. Monstahs I mean was, ya daddy say, them what was killin Chiricahua. Spaniards, eh? Seventeen, eighteen century. In tha Dragoon Mountains Arizona way.” He looked to the east for a long while before resuming. “A diyyin begged Usen ta hep.”
“Direct intercession with Creator by a Chiricahua medicine leader?”
“Yeah, but ya use too many fuckin words. Usen say run quick n get atop tha tallest mountain. Chiricahua sit three days n nights waitin witout water.”
“Go on.”
“Day Four, Wind come blowin out tha West. Lightning come slashin out tha North.
Thunder come barrelin out tha East. Sun rose out tha South. Don’t fuckin say what ya bout ta.”
I got two more beers and gifted one to Harold.
He twisted the top with his teeth and guzzled. “Where was I?” “Sun rose from the South.”
“Yeah. Sun, Wind, Thunder, n Lightnin hug n shout, ‘Hookah!’ “Translated, Let’s go!”
“Mmm. They join arms somewheres souwest n spun counterclockway, eh? Now Sun, Wind, Thunder, n Lightnin rotate they arms n charge out the souwest, suckin Water off Ocean. They sail in Black Cloud over Ndebenah”
“Land of the People.”
“Yep. Day become Night. Chaos everwhere. By time Sun, Wind, Thunder, n Lightnin come, too late fa Evil Ones ta climb.”
I listened raptly.
“Then Sun depart. Black Cloud thicken. Evil People try runnin but Wind blow four direction. N Chiricahua singin Wind Song.”
He sang the old words: Let it be well, my brother Wind. Blow wide, my brother. Continue in a good way. Be kind as you blow through. Do not harm your poor people. Brother Wind, do your duty against the Evil People.
He took a slug of Red Stripe, then continued. “Then Wind blow down tha Evil People n wrench em limb ta limb n toss they corpses. But no Chiricahua hurt.”
Time was short. “And Lightning followed Wind, Uncle?”
“Yeah. Lightnin strike out four direction. N Chiricahua sing Lightnin Song.”
And so did Harold. Let it be well, my brother Lightning. Strike high, my brother.
Continue in a good way. Be kind as you go crackle through. Do not harm your poor people. Brother Lightning, do your duty against the Evil People.
He pulled hard at the bottle. “Then Lightnin electrocute Evil People n burn em ta ash.” “Were any Chiricahua hurt?”
“Nope. Thunder boom out four direction. Chiricahua sing Thunder Song.”
Let it be well, my brother Thunder. Clap all around us, my brother. Continue in a good way. Be kind as you boom through. Do not harm your poor people. Brother Thunder, do your duty against the Evil People.
Harold sucked the bottle dry. “Then Thunder boom, blowin Evil People ta bits.” “But Thunder left the Chiricahua unmolested?”
“Man, woman, n child. Then a wave stretch horizon ta horizon n become Child-a-Water.” Child-of-Water was the son of the Creator. “Child-of-Water returned to earth?”
“Mmm. In a shirt a cloud n rainbow abalone. Everwhere Water. Chiricahua sing Child-a- Water Song.” Let it be well, Child-of-Water. Wash all around us Continue in a good way. Be kind as you wash through. Do not harm your poor people. Child-of-Water, do your duty against the Evil People.
“Keep going, Uncle.”
“So Child-a-Water open tha gate holdin back Water n unleash a deluge. Evil People what left drown, n they abodes dissolve, n Ndebenah was purify. No Chiricahua succumb.”
I chuckled. “So the Chiricahua were saved through piety and singing?” Harold bristled. “Ya fuckin sa much as smile again, I’ll kill ya.”
“Sorry, Uncle. But no hurricane ever came from the west into Ndebenah.” “Dumbass. Go back ta Miami.”
“I’m sorry. Please go on.”
“Shit. Spanish wrote bout massive hurrican from the Pacific cross Baja n slam Ndebenah. Bout 1760. Weren’t no Chiricahua casualties neitha. After that, Spain don’t bother Chiricahua na more.”
“What does your story have to do with a tropical storm five hundred miles from here, or the traffickers threatening to use its cover to kill my wife to shut her up?”
Harold coughed phlegm. “Nothin. I’s flappin old man lips, eh? But Ina Chiricahua by marriage. Ya kid by blood. A storm brewin. Ya might need ta find a high spot n sing. Or not.”
Wind picked up. “Uncle, please sing again.”
He did. All four rounds. And again. And again. And again. Louder each time. I sang along until I knew the songs better than my wife’s face.
Lightning flashed far off. Thunder rumbled.
As the first raindrops fell from the sunny sky, my eyes opened. I thanked Harold and set out to do my duty.
The Everglades smelled of medicines.
I was wrong, Dr. Demi Diaz whispered in my ear, so quiet I might have imagined it. I opened my eyes.
Doctors, nurses, machines, white sheets. A badge around Demi’s neck read Chief of Psychiatry—Jackson Behavioral Hospital on the first line and Veteran’s Clinic on the second.
“Wrong about what, Demi?”
She smiled. “You and Ina are the very best cure for each other. Rest now, Sergeant Panther. She’s going to need you later.”
Dear Editors, In "Owl Man Goes Down" (2696 words), a morally-injured Chiricahua Apache veteran draws on an ancient origin story to bridge the chasm that war dug between him and his wife. "Tommy Cheis is a Chiricahua Apache writer. He lives in the Cochise Stronghold of Arizona and in Sarasota. His stories (will) appear in Subtropics, Consequence, Another Chicago Magazine, Indiana Review, Puerto del Sol, Nonbinary Review, New Limestone Review, Collateral, After Dinner Conversation, + > 30 other publications. A 2x Pushcart nominee, his work appears on the CLMP Reading List for Native American Month November 2024." http://www.tommycheis.com