This is the story of both a nightmare and a child’s wish.
You see, recently, I was in a grandmother’s kitchen - chewing on fry bread dipped in moose stew as one does - while listening to her stories. She would always tell me the most fantastical of stories, even now as an adult. Stories to learn from, stories to fear, stories of love and loss. Or stories just to tell stories.
But this story… this story was one of her own, from a time before her stories would become forbidden history. This story of difficult truths and hopeful fantasy that wrecks my guts that I’m sure was hard to share.
“I once was pretty as you, ya know.”
“You’re still beautiful Grandma Anna.”
“At least you recognize it. Eat’cher stew.”
I stared at her a moment before dutifully following orders.
“Once I was even younger and prettier than you.”
I silently chewed away. I could feel a story was coming. A NEW story. And I listened raptly to her thick accent and slow cadence that comes with storytelling.
“Once I was younger and could climb rocks and jump river. Once I could sing and dance to drums with my scarf. And once, I followed a butterfly.
I ran after Butterfly with my brother. Through and between trees and along the river until we were far away from where we started. Far and fast from our pursuers. Faster than their voices could carry, faster than their heavy boots would take them.
But the chasers didn’ matter, Butterfly was taking us home
The sun was high and bright when we began following. This way. That way. Along cricks and past burrows. We ran after Butterfly as Chickadee sang, tellin’ us ‘no, no, don follow him that way. Turn left at the crossing.’
And at the crossin’ we turned left.
Still I could hear the monsters behind us. The brush underfoot could never be quiet enough, the animals avoidin’ us could never stay still. I never looked back to see if they tried to help us. Only Butterfly was who mattered.
And still they followed us.
We ran and ran, as the sun began settin’ and the trail would lead us home. Chickadee said so. But we feared the dark. Because the monsters are out after dark. And not just our monsters - the Woodsmen and Bushmen - bu’ the chasers.
We could only hope and pray to Dena, and… pray to the God we only just learned of.
I could hear the footsteps and shouts of the pursuers behind us. Getting closer. Strayin’ further.
I felt my frustration build and build as your uncle Paul’s tiny legs hindered me. Hindered us. I couldn’t get him to be quieter. I was convinced he was why the monsters still followed us.
Perhaps if I jus’ let ‘im go.
No. I couldn’ do that. I couldn’ leave him behind to the terror that lay with them.
The lick of razor straps. The darkness of locked rooms. The feelin’ of a switch on the palms and feet. I couldn’t leave him to the monsters. My heart jumped to my throat. How could I think that?
We were far along the trail and as the little darkness of summer settled behind the trees we came across a cabin. Chickadee had sent us to safety.
We pounded on the door, cryin’ for help when an old grandfather opened it.
‘We need safety.’ I said. ‘Would you help us, grandfather?’
‘Oh children, of course. Wha’ could you be doin’ out in the dark middle of the woods, so far from home?’
We told him of Butterfly and Chickadee, of the pursuers still in the dark.
‘Well, they’re not here. I hear no sound nor see light of ‘em.’
My brother and I finally sighed in relief. We were safe for now. We were safe from monsters and the chasers.
We sat in the middle of his small cabin. Shiverin’ and holdin’ each other as we waited to be warmed from the night breeze. We knew that we still weren’ safe. But we couldn’ continue on in the brief darkness of summer. There were only two hours we had to wait, but those two hours were enough we could be found.
‘Here children.’ He handed us bowls we barely took the time to look into. ‘Have dinner.’
We easily complied. We were starvin’ from long before we even ran. We had been starvin’ for months… years… we could only guess at the time as even a day can be a lifetime to a child. We lived with monsters we had never heard of in tales. Neither Woodsmen or the others you know. What we did live with was the gnawing fear. The fear of not bein’ able to eat, and the fear of bein’ eaten all at once.
After eatin’ we rested, savin’ our strength for the rest uh the day to come. That little time was enough for us. As soon as the sun began its ascent we left grandfather - smoked salmon and dried berries in a pack, and began our run again, leaving just in time to hear the chasers’ voices carrying. They must have rested as we had.
This time though, I had no direction ‘cept away from their voices. Through the trees and over rocks their voices carried.
My brother was too young to keep up. Today, I had to place him on my back to go faster. As quickly as I could I carried us along the river. Followin’ it home.
But I began to waver. How far were we to where we were from? Where was Nenana to Minto? On the map it had been so close, yet in the woods it was so far. Was our family still there? Were they taken by our chasers too? Was there anything waitin’ fer us?
I remembered the day our pursuers took us. That day we saw all of the other children lined up. The day all of the children were taken from the village. The looks on the adults’ faces. The look upon mother’s. Some hopeful, some wary, and some against our absence.
The day all the children disappeared. We only saw a few of our friends from that day onward. We had been taken somewhere suppose ta be safe. Somewhere we were s’posed ta learn. Where we learned new things. And where we learned things we never needed.
Where we learned english. Where we learned maths…
Where we learned our families were wrong. How we were destined for what was called hell. Where we learned Dena was a lie. Where we learned all the spirits were dead and only God existed.
The only way to teach us - and teach us they did - was discipline. Because we could never be right enough. We could answer. But because we didn’t know all of the answers we were wrong.
So I ran with my brother. Even if the village weren’t still there, it was better than bein’ wrong.
I ran so I would never have ta be wrong and be beaten.
I ran so I would never have ta beat my brother. I’d never have to take the switch to him again. Never make his poor short legs bleed again.
I was selfish. I left all the others behind. Your aunties and uncles you’ll never meet. Because we have no names and only learned their numbers. I never found them after.
So I ran. Away from the pursuers. Away from their voices. Along the river as far as I could, letting your Uncle Paul down only when I was too tired.
Until finally, I found Butterfly. I followed Butterfly, away from the river, through the trees, across the animal trails. We ran after Butterfly for a day before looking to the sky and seeing the sun slowly touch the horizon. At the same time I saw Butterfly took us to a den.
So we rested, hidden from Woodsmen who gave his awful cries and the dead dogs barking in the distance. Oh how we huddled in the den. How close the Woodsman came. Sniffing and growling. Looking for children like us to steal.
He came close. Closer. Closer. Sniffin’ this way and that, around the burrow, through the ground. We could hear every twig crack, every piece of dirt under foot as he searched.
Yer poor uncle whimperin’ as we huddled there. I was scared. I was too scared and held my hand over his mouth. His whimperin’ echoing in my head. How he laid there in my arms, as I held him tight to stop his strugglin’.
I had to keep him quiet.
The Woodsman was so close to findin’ the entrance. His scent. The awful scent be carried in on the breeze. The smell of musk, overwhelming my entire being.
I held your uncle tighter.
I don’ know how long we laid there. How long it was until yer uncle stopped struggling. Realizing I’d never let go. How my hand would never leave his mouth until the Woodsman left first. His breathin’ through his nose slowing. Calming.
The sun began rising. I could see light peeking between the treetops.
The Woodsman left to find his own home.
Your uncle laid still as I let him go. I listened closely to his breathing. Slow and steady. At least one of us had been able to sleep that night.
After eating some of the salmon we had been gifted we began to walk. We could no longer hear our pursuers.
The leisurely pace granted us time to heal. To find our bearings as we followed the moss north to where our home laid. Where we didn’t have to run no more.
It took us days of hiding in the dark and walking during the day. Of hunting for berries and catching the fish from the river. Taking the clothes off our back to make nets, tearing the hems to make ropes.
Still, Butterfly would find us and Chickadee would guide us. Sometimes Raven would lead us. We would occasionally come across the Woodsman and a hungry lost Walker stalking at night, while during the day we avoided the crying Torega along the river branches.
We learned we could not avoid Torega. The Tanana had too many side channels and attached sloughs. That first time we met Torega… I didn’t know what to do. We had only ever been taught Shamen could get rid of them. Never how to escape them.
The heavy breathing of the creature as it prowled its domain. Right where we needed to cross.
I held your uncle’s hand tightly. Could we run fast enough? No.
I watched in horror as it wouldn’t let anything living pass. The speed of it. It darted left, right, jumping at birds too close. Catching everything in reach. And worse… it was on both sides of the river and the nearby slough, darting over the water and through the trees.
I swallowed. I had been going back and forth between walking alongside Paul or with him on my back. I was tired. Too tired. And the slough went for miles along the tributary.
Then it screeched and screamed. It searched along the opposite side of the river, sniffing and crawling. Human and yet not. The fast long legs holding it up and long arms with reach to catch. Oh the sight. Its messy hair covered its eyes and its visible mouth held wicked teeth. There was no scent to it, as if it were part of the surroundings. I would never have warnin’ of its approach.
I could only swallow back my disgust at the sight.
We had no choice but to go ‘round. Go ‘round as it stalked us from inside its domain. Durin’ the day we walked and walked over uneven ground, staying only close enough to the bog so we could see it.
I had no sleep. The sound of warring cries throughout each night haunted me. The cries of Woodsmen overlapping with the cries of the Torega. One night I heard the battle. The scream of Woodsman and the ripping of flesh. It had gotten too close to the bog and into Torega’s domain. I held my hands over Paul’s ears, his terrorized crying drown out by the battle.
Splashing, clawing, the smell of blood mixing with the musk of Woodsman. It surrounded me, putting my head into a fog.
I don’t know how long it took before I heard the despairing cries of many Woodsmen throughout the forest followed by a scream of victory from the slough. The Woodsman had lost.
I moved my hands from Paul’s ears, holding one hand against his mouth for what felt like the thousandth time and stroked his head, shushing into his ear. The battle was over and our sounds would carry in the now silent night.
The next day we walked further away from the slough than we needed before we came around and crossed the river the Torega had guarded.
Who knows how many days it took us along the Tanana and its children. But the day finally came. The day we stumbled out of the woods into Old Menhti.
It was a day that should have been joyous. The day two stolen children had returned.
But it was not meant to be. The happiness of seeing my parents. The bliss of a hug from my grandmother.
As I ran with the last bit of energy I had from a month in the woods and as my fingers brushed the hem of my father’s shirt I saw it. I didn’ remember their faces no more. And that’s when I heard it.
The bell. The bell that rang red in my head. The bell of the morning hour waking me. My eyes opened instinctively. I couldn’t be late. I didn’t want to have to have my hands smacked again. I rolled up and set my feet on the floor. The only real thing from the night. Your uncle and I hadn’t made it home.
We were still locked in the halls of the boarding school. The boarding school hundreds of miles, and many waters and mountains from my home - impossible for my young legs to survive alone.
As I went through my normal day the routine brought me back into my haze.
I watched as a new student speaking his language caused the boys dorm to be whipped with the razor strap again. There was nothing I could do to stop it.
The one thing I could stop was the girl who began absently humming near me. I turned to her and smacked her. I don’t know why I smacked her instead of speaking. But I smacked her because I feared they’d realize it was one of our songs.
‘You’ve been here long enough to have a name. You should know better,’ I hissed at her.
The day continued on as it normally would before our lunch. Where I saw one of the pursuers in my dreams. The head of the school had joined us.
My stomach knotted and the food roiled in my stomach as I remembered not just the terror of my dream but the terror of every waking night. The feeling of his touch on my arm, the insinuations that came out of his mouth, and the threats dripping off his tongue.
I couldn’t eat my lunch.
And still the day continued on. On and on like a normal day. As if my dream never happened. Until that night when I climbed into bed and fell asleep.
When I began to dream again. Began to dream of escape again. Dreamt of Shadowmen and Shapeshifters who I had lost fear of long ago. I no longer feared monsters of our rivers when I lived with monsters everyday.
And the next morning I woke to a bell. And the morning after that. And the morning after that.
Today I still wake to a bell in my head. Today I still wake, scared to tell you stories. But these stories must be told.”
I sat, soup cold and abandoned in my lap. “Grandma, you’re here.”
“Yes child, I know.”
“You’re here. You’re not there.”
“I know. Let me get you some warm soup.”
“…Yes Grandma.”
I looked down at my now empty hands.
Her story was always my story, quietly written in history at the end of a page. And still, her only story to tell was of a nightmare.