KEECHIE ~ A novel by Phil Whitley
A story of survival and adventure
Chapter One ~ First Meeting
“Dat wada give you da shits fer sho. You gots t’ bile it furs’,” came a voice from no more than six feet away from me.
I nearly jumped over the small spring I was about to drink from. As far as I knew, I was the only soul for miles around. Except for the occasional screech of a blue jay or the skittering of squirrels, there was no other sound.
“What… who… where are you?” I asked as I tried to regain my composure. The voice sounded like a young girl, but had a quality of being older, wiser somehow.
Fern fronds parted slightly to my left, exposing a small brown face with dark walnut eyes - eyes that glinted with humor and intelligence - eyes that hinted of something deeper…
”Whatcher name, boy? Mine’s Keechie.”
“Uhh, Brian. My name is Brian. You really scared me. Come out so I can see you, okay?”
The face disappeared behind the fern and all was silent again. Just as I was about to call her again, she spoke from behind me.
“So Brine, whatcha doin’ out hyer?”
Again, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I was beginning to reply when I turned to face her, but stopped short at the sight.
She was tiny—maybe a little over four feet tall—dressed in a simple cotton smock that was obviously homemade. She was barefooted with long, wide-spaced toes that gave the impression of fingers. Her long silky hair was nearly white and held in place by a beaded headband
“I was just exploring. Looking for Indian mounds, arrowheads and stuff,” I said.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Ah lives hyer. Lived hyer all my life,” she said solemnly.
“With yor parents?”
“Hee, hee, ain’t got none o’ dem no mo. Mam died las’ yer, and my Pap ain’t nevva been `roun’ since I wuz a l’il gurl. Said he wuz a’goin’ huntin’. Guess he ain’t found nuttin’ yet. Hee, hee.”
“Since you were a little girl? How old are you now?”
In some ways she seemed older now that I was able to watch her mannerisms and hear her speak more, but you just couldn’t tell for sure.
“Well, lessee, Mam said I wuz `bout fifty when Granny Boo died, an’ dat wuz…what… at leas’ ten yars ago. We burred her up at da big rock – same place I burred Mam. Right aside `er. Lotsa us foke burred up dere.”
“You’re sixty? You look like you’re barely a teenager! How did you do it?”
“Furse, by not drankin’ pizon wada. Hyer, have somma mine,” she said as she passed me a gourdlike thing that was hanging around her neck by a thong. ”Hit got some lemon grass and stuff fer flaver.”
I took the gourd and tasted. It was good, and cool, and I wiped my mouth as I passed it back to her.
“Thanks, that is good. What were you doing out here?”
“Well, I wuz `bout to kill me a rabbit when you skeered it away, crashin’ through da brush lak you did. Wanna see whar I stays?” she asked as she turned and melted into the forest.
“Is you a’comin’?” she added, sounding like she was already twenty yards ahead of me.
“Wait up. I can’t see you!” I pleaded, not knowing why I was about to follow her, except from a great curiosity, and a feeling that I was about to have a real adventure.
I felt no danger from Keechie. After all, I was bigger than she was by far, and a strong sixteen years old. I still couldn’t believe she was sixty. In a minute I caught sight of her again and hurried to catch up.
After about fifteen minutes of fighting through brush and vines we came to a small clearing nestled right up against the foot of Pine Mountain. A place I thought I knew like the back of my hand. There were several huge boulders, and between two of them, appeared to be the front half of a shack. A small, sloped roof covered what used to be a porch, but that’s all there was of her “house”.
“’C’mon in, but be shore to wipe yer boots off, hee, hee,” she said as she hung her water gourd and knapsack on a hook beneath the porch. “Duck yore head when you gets inside while I lights a cannle. Ain’t had no cumpny since Mam passed.”
From the pale light of a guttering candle, I could just make out that we were in a cave. Something that I heard was in these mountains, but was never fortunate enough to find. Maybe someone had dug this one, but it looked natural from what little I could make out by the flickering light.
There was a pleasant aroma filling the space—probably from the herbs and bunches of dried roots hanging from every available space above our heads. A rock-lined hearth took up part of the back wall and contained a black iron kettle. Smoke drifted slowly up and disappeared into a crack in the ceiling.
“How big IS this place?” I wondered aloud.
“Don’ nobody know fer sho, but my Pap found some opnin’s through da rock. Dey be miles an’ miles unda da mountin, he tole us—Granny Boo, Mam and me. My baby brother got hisseff lost up in dere sommeres. Pap hunted `im fer days. Dat wuz when I wuz jus’ a l’il girl,” she replied almost as if she was thinking aloud to herself.
“Do you ever go to where our houses are, you know… in the valley?” I asked, in an attempt to change the subject.
“Sometime my Pap would take me inta town with `im. Dat wuz when `e worked sawmillin’ and stuff. He hadda go to da Sto to fetch `is pay. Dey paid the menfokes at da Sto, hopin’ dey buy sumpin’ I `spose… He `ud get dry beans an’ sugar and taters an’ baccy an’ thangs lak dat. He always got me some canny. I sho did lak canny!” She paused a long moment, seemingly lost in thought.
“He tol’ me to not talk to `em, and especull no Injun talk. ‘Don’ evva look `em inna eyes,’ he say. ‘Dey hates Injuns wuss dan niggers,’ he say. Nevva did lak dat word, an’ I don’ even know whut it mean.
“I sho did lak that sto though. Dey had evathang in dere. Shoes dey call brogans, my Pap say, and food in cans. Hee, hee. Furs’ time he brought dat can stuff back, my Mam lak to never got into it! He say they was a thang he fergot dat open’ dem. Mam beat it open with a rock! Hee, hee.”
“Dey had cold meat, food fer cows an’ chickens, hammas an’ saws an’ sich. I sho coulda got spoilt iffen I coulda got mo stuff dere!”
She paused with a wistful look on her face then added, “Afta dat, I juss sometimes goes up t’ de top of da mountin and watches da car lights run aroun’ da roads down dere. Sometime I can hyer some music a’playin’ when da wind’s jus’ right. Once I sneaked up real close t’ one a’ dey houses, and could see de fokes inside, movin’ aroun’… an’ somma dey kids was a’playin’ outside. One o’ dem spotted me and run inside real fas’ lak, a’hollerin’ ‘Injun, Injun!’ So I got `way from dere inna hurry, I did! Hee, hee.”
“Indian? You’re an Indian?” I asked, with growing excitement. As far as I knew there hadn’t been any Indians around here for over a hundred years!
“Well, my Mam and Granny Boo wuz. My Pap, well, he were blacker’n a crow. He say his mam were Injun though. So I `spose I more’n haff Injun. Why don’chall lak Injuns?” she added, catching me off-guard.
“Who says we don’t like Indians? Why do you think I roam these swampy vine-jungles, looking for Indian stuff? I don’t think I’ve never even SEEN a real Indian! Pictures, yes, and movies on television”
“I read every book I can find on Indians. I study about the Indians that were here, in this part of the country, before the white man killed them or drove them away. I sometimes wish that I WAS an Indian! Don’t lump me in with everybody else! …please?” I blurted, realizing that I was yelling pretty loud. “Sorry, I got carried away.”
“Dat’s okay. Dey din’ drive us ALL away. Hee, hee… ner kilt us all neither. Granny Boo’s granny an’ her family `fused to leave hyer when da sojers come an’ tol’ `em dey gots t’ leave. Dey came hyer to this cave an’ hid, an’ no one ever foun’ `em. Din’ even know to look fer `em, my Pap say. He say dat Injuns could juss disappear inta da fores’. Slip away lak shadders, he say. I ken do it too! Hee, hee.” We been hyer ever since!”
I couldn’t believe it! An honest-to-god Indian still living here! I remembered something I had in my pocket that I had found earlier today close to the spring.
“Look at this,” I said as I offered it to her.
It was a perfect chert arrowhead about two inches long. She took it and looked at it closely. She raised it over her head with her lips moving silently.
“Juss honerin’ m’ ancestors” she said as she looked at it closely.
“Hit ain’t from `roun’ hyer. Looks lak somma dat my Granny Boo’s fambly traded fer. Plains people she call `em, you know, da ones from da souf’ … I still gots a chunk o’ hit hyer `roun’ hyer somwhars. I tries to save it when I kin. Ain’t no mo a’comin’.” she said as she handed it back to me.
“I know,” I answered, realizing my chance to show off my Indian knowledge. “Chert is fairly common in middle Georgia, around Butler and Reynolds, but not around here. I once found an almost perfect bird point down there!”
“Yep, Dey traded `em pelts fer dat stuff. Beaver, deer, rabbit, whuteva dey had fer it. Hit make a good sharp knife, hit does!”
She hesitated and looked me in the eyes.
“Kin I trus’ you, Brine?”
“Trust me? Why would you ask that?” I felt kinda hurt at the question.
“You be da onliest one know `bout me hyer. I felt de call t’ talk to you today. Seemed `portant, but I wants t’ stay private lak, ya unnerstan’?” she asked, still looking deeply in my eyes.
“You can trust me,” I promised, with a goose-bumpy feeling that something very important was taking place.
“But it’s getting late and I need to get home before dark. My folks will be worried.” I began moving towards the porch reluctantly. I was afraid that if I left now I may never see her again.
“Can I come back sometimes?”
“Sho you kin, Brine. I wants you to, an’ I wantcha t’ have dis.”
Keechie took a small leather bag from around her neck and placed in over my head.
“Don’ evva take it off, er you has bad luck or sompin’. Hit were Granny Boo’s. I come wit’cha partway, `cuz we needs t’ talk some mo. I shows you da easy way dis time. Hee, hee.”