I became more aware of changes in the woods as my guide led me on. The first difference I noticed was the earthen scent.

A mixture of the musky warmth of horse's skin, the scent of mild spices and herbs, of hearth fires.

The second difference was the ground we trod upon. It became much more of a well-worn path rather than the brush we had been pushing through. He was leading me to a camp-site.

And the third… The birds were quieter here. Their chirps and caws were much less frequent, as if they feared discovery by some nearby predator, lurking among them.

I found it harder and harder to focus on my own thoughts. They darted to and fro, perhaps fearing wasting too much time and energy on a single notion. A light fog seemed to have laid itself upon my brain, and I followed my rescuer in a dazed silence.

I watched his long, braided black hair, gently swaying upon his back with every step he took. It was tied at the end with a thin strip of deerskin, like his clothing. He seemed more nervous the closer we got to his camp, adjusting his quiver upon his shoulder needlessly and fiddling with his knife. He walked even more carefully, his bare feet making absolutely no noise upon the soft dirt of the path. I don't think he realized he was doing it, a subconscious reaction to his apparent anxiety about whoever was at his camp.

Despite his uneasiness, I was rather impatient to get to wherever we were going.

To water, to food, and beyond!

I choked out a chuckle, imagining my very serious guide dressed as Buzz Lightyear. The thought was so funny that my feet went haywire, and I tripped over nothing. He whirled around, snatching me to him before my body could reach the dirt. His rough hands steadied me for a moment, but when my knees buckled, his brow furrowed, his thin lips pressed together. I grinned at him, my vision fluttering as my eyelids tried to close of their own accord.

"I am so tired…" I said, feebly pushing him away and trying to stand on my own again.

"Tokheka aniu," he uttered, and as if I were nothing more than a ragdoll, he picked me up like a child, and swung me over his shoulder, "Wanya maktepi kte li, Wahwala Zuzeca."

The blood rushed to my head, making me even giddier. I wanted to laugh, but found I was too breathless to do so. His smooth step barely jostled me for the next few minutes as he carried me. I glanced to the side, seeing an upside down version of a wooden wall, made of long, thick birch tree branches, pointed at the top. I turned my gaze back into his deerskin shirt, breathing in his foreign scent, letting myself go limp. It was exhausting to try and turn my torso to inspect my surroundings. He brought us through a gap in the wall, and I heard murmuring in that same strange language my rescuer sometimes used.

"Kuruk! Tuwa?" A tiny voice shouted above the murmuring, making me turn my head in curiosity.

"Hei cha wayazan," I heard him reply, and his deep voice resonated through his body, against my cheek. A little girl with long black hair and skin the color of caramel came into view, reaching towards me. Her face was much like the man's whose shoulder I was currently perched on, strong-jawed and wide lipped, with a chiseled nose and brow. She poked my cheek with one chubby finger, her eyes wide, then screeched with laughter and ran away.

We gathered more of a crowd, I noticed, from the increasing volume of voices surrounding us. He walked us past numerous horses and people, all of their eyes upon us. I heard low canine growling, a dog reacting to the upset of his master.

Looks like I'm the main attraction.

"Takue cha choka-gli?"

My rescuer stopped in his tracks at the voice of what must have been an older woman, laced with outrage.

"Hei cha wayazan, hei-"

She interrupted him with a long string of harsh words, and I heard her spit on the ground, an action which was followed by many of our spectators. He gently slid me off his shoulder, placing me firmly on my feet, keeping a hand on my shoulder for stability. I wobbled as I adjusted to being right-side up again, my eyes hurrying to focus on the shapes before us.

We were surrounded by men and women of all ages who looked like my rescuer, all coppery caramel skin and severe expressions. They were dressed like him as well, with uniquely adorned deer skin attire for each of them. Some of the older folk has fur parkas around their shoulders.

They were Native Americans. He brought me to an actual Native American village.

I didn't know any of them still lived this traditionally.

There were round-top huts of mud and sticks, expertly crafted for sturdiness and warmth, placed all around the village. Women and small children poked their heads out of many of them, curious about the commotion we were causing. There were half-tanned animal skins outside many of the huts, set out to dry on wooden racks in the nearly waned sunlight. In the center of all of the huts, there sat a large wooden building with few windows and one large door, a large fire pit situated outside it. Another smaller wooden building, rounded like the huts, had been built beside it. Smoke rose from a hole in the ceiling of that building, and I found I wanted very much to see past the deer-skin flaps covering the doorway.

My companion turned his severe gaze from the older woman to everyone crowding around us, and began gesturing to me, speaking loudly and firmly. They regarded me warily, as if I were some kind of dangerous creature they weren't sure of yet. Some shook their heads, some looked like they wanted to toss me onto the fire pit, and light it.

The older woman began berating my rescuer again, only to be interrupted. A stout man emerged from the wooden building with the smoke rising from it, striding towards us. He was dressed slightly different from everyone else in the village, with beads and feathers adorning his dark hair, lined with a few silver streaks here and there. Intricately crafted bone earrings hung from his earlobes, and he wore an expression of assured authority.

Well, I think it's safe to say he's in charge…

I looked up at my rescuer to see that his teeth were clenched tightly, his square jaw working nervously.

I stepped closer to him.

The Chief planted himself in front of us, his austere gaze sweeping back and forth between him and me. He didn't look pleased to see me.

"Kuruk," he said sharply, addressing my rescuer, "Okanihiya."

Kuruk, as I supposed he was called, swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. He began speaking calmly, glancing at me every so often. The Chief asked a question, his voice low and dangerous to which Kuruk replied, vehemently disagreeing with whatever he'd said, it seemed. I made sure to follow Kuruk's previous advice, and remained completely silent. I didn't know what was happening or why my presence was such a disturbance, but I had the distinct feeling if I opened my mouth, it wouldn't be helped.

At last, when I was sure I would collapse from standing so long, the Chief nodded begrudgingly, and snapped his fingers, turning away to return to the smoke hut.

Two women stepped forward from the crowd, and after a brief hesitation, they each took one of my hands, tugging at me. I stumbled after them, craning my neck to look behind me, at Kuruk.

"Wait, Kuruk, what's happening?" I said, letting out a groan of frustration when I remembered no one spoke English here, "Kuruk, qu'est-ce que, um… comment ca va!"

He watched me with little expression upon his face, fiddling with his knife again. The women jerked me forward, causing me to fall to my knees. One of them muttered something to the other, and they each put an arm around their shoulders, effectively supporting most of my weight. I was led into one of the huts, through a deer skin flap, where two small children sat, a boy and a girl, playing with wooden sculpted toys.

The women roughly sat me down on the opposite end of the hut, one starting a fire in the fire pit situated in the center of it, while the other left through the door we'd just entered by. She returned shortly with a large jug, from which the sound of water sloshing about came. My throat flared in thirst, and when she held it out to me, I took it quickly in my shaking hands. I began chugging the water, struggling not to choke on it in my haste. One of the women, the one with two braids, exclaimed something, snatching the jug away from me, shaking her head.

I could feel the water cooling my heated, empty stomach. It was so pleasant, I let out a groan of relief. Two-braids opened a wooden box on the floor, taking out what seemed to be a dried meat of some kind. She handed it to me, watching me greedily dispose of it in less than thirty seconds. One-Braid, the younger of the two women, said something to me, her eyebrows raised. I stared at her blankly, and she let out a sigh, gesturing to her clothing, then pointing to mine.

Again, I stared at her blankly.

Frowning, she made her way over to the shelf, next to where the children sat, picking up a folded cloth. She dipped it in the jug of water, dabbed it in some kind of powder, rubbed it about in her hands, and then Two-Braids began tugging at my clothing.

Fascinated with the zipper of my jacket, she poked it, prodded it, her mouth set in captivation. Then she seemed confused, lifting my arms, patting me down, as if looking for something. She snapped the straps of my sports bra under my jacket, her eyes widening. I blushed a bit, finally understanding. They wanted to wash me.

I took a deep breath, unzipping my jacket, to which both of them reacted as if shocked. They glanced at each other, murmuring in their language, eyeing me cautiously. I continued stripping myself of clothing, placing it in a heap at my feet. I kept my bra and underwear on, folding my shaky arms across my torso.

One-Braid nodded at my chest, speaking encouragingly. I shook my head, but she was persistent, speaking louder, gesturing to me, so I gave in and stripped completely, covering my breasts with my arms. Goosebumps rose on my skin, and if it weren't for the fire they'd made, I'd have passed out for sure.

Two-Braids crouched in front of me, picking up my sports bra. She stretched it between her two hands, turning to speak excitedly to One-Braid, who nodded before approaching me. The cloth in her hand glided over my skin, scrubbing dirt and sweat off wherever it went. The powder she'd dabbed it in was a pleasant, woodsy scent that admittedly smelled ten times better than I did before. Neither of them seemed disturbed by my nakedness, but I for one was. I let out a squeal of shock when she wrenched my arms from my chest, the cloth invading that private expanse of skin.

Talk about no perception of personal space… I just hope someone around here knows how to get back to a town, or something.

Two-Braids examined my hiking boots with interest, turning them this way and that. I wondered if they'd ever seen clothing like mine before, from the way they treated it all. It seemed strange to me that Native Americans in a North Carolina National Park were so isolated.

I didn't even know there was a reservation here…

When One-Braid got to my legs, she paused, running her hand over the skin of my calf, feeling the stubble from when I'd shaved four days before rasp her fingers. She seemed half disgusted and half charmed, exclaiming something to Two-Braids, who crouched next to her, examining my leg.

"Um…" I said, clearing my throat, feeling the need to speak in order to dispel my discomfort, "Sorry, I haven't shaved recently."

They looked up at me briefly, then One-Braid continued her work, moving on to plucking the twigs out of my hair. Tears pricked at eyes, from the sharp pain of the twigs being ripped from my hair. She didn't bother with being gentle. Her focus was more on efficiency, it seemed.

That's when she noticed the cut on my hand, murmuring to Two-Braids, who snatched a pot off the shelf and brought it to her companion. One-Braid stuck two fingers in the small container, and slapped the oily residue onto my cut.

It stung, and I hissed in pain, trying to jerk my hand away from her. She spoke harshly, roughly smacking the top of my head, which got her immediate results. I stopped struggling in surprise, feeling like a small dog who had misbehaved. Frowning, she rubbed the oil into the cut, ignoring my sharp intakes of breath before continuing in her methodical quest to clean every inch of me.

Just remember, Evy, there are worse things... You could be dead!

One-Braid chose that moment to get super up close and personal, and I clenched my legs together, heated blood pooling in my face. This earned me another smack to the head, and I began to wonder whether death was the worst of these two options...


After both women were satisfied that I was entirely clean and sufficiently fed and watered, they had clothed me in a deerskin tunic, with loose leggings of the same material. I felt strange with no bra on, nor underwear, but I expressed my gratefulness for the clean clothes. They laid me down onto what I thought was perhaps a large wolf skin, the fur a bit coarser than I'd expected. It was unimaginably comfortable after being on my feet for practically two days. They did the same with the children, and One-Braid slept with them. Two-Braids, however, stayed wakeful, sitting close to the fire, weaving some kind of basket, one eye on me and one on her work.

I stared up at the sturdy wooden log rafters holding the rounded ceiling of the hut up. The firelight danced on it, while my mind wandered, and I thought back to when things had been normal. Not two days ago, but to a month ago, when everything was perfectly fine.

Ashley was alive still, I wasn't completely and hopelessly lost in Pisgah National Forest, my dearest friends in the whole world weren't in mourning, and everything was right in my life…

Ash… You'd be thrilled at being so lost. Adrenaline junkie.

Grief, I decided, was like the tides of the ocean. Sometimes it would recede, and your mind would be free, your heart chugging along without a care in the world. But, during high tide, it was impossible to swim to the surface, your heart screaming for mercy, and your mind would be consumed by it. Often, I found myself thinking about her, my crazy, lovable, partner in crime. Sometimes I would cry for the happy times, and how I missed them so dearly. Sometimes I would cry for the times we would never get to make, their absence weighing heavy in my chest, and sometimes I would cry because all I could think of was how awful her last few moments must have been... How lonely and worthless she must have thought herself to be, and with such surety.

If only I could go back, let you know how much you meant to me, to everyone in your entire life, maybe I could have changed things. If I'd known…

Tears lazily welled up to obscure my view of the dancing light, sitting idly on the cusp of my eyes. I knew if I didn't wrench myself away from this train of thought, I'd be bawling in no time.

Wouldn't want to wake the kiddies...

I quickly wiped the moisture form my eyes, rolling onto my side to stare into the flames themselves. My thoughts turned instead back to when I'd touched those stones, and I was reminded of the sensation, my skin both frozen and burning in the same instant. Those terrifying, ancient stones. It was nearly painful to remember what had happened, exactly. It was impossible to comprehend.

One moment, I was tracing an ancient rune, the next I was waking up on the ground. And after the earthquake, everything was different. The old tree, the bridge, even the air seemed different…

I must admit, it doesn't make much sense. An earthquake, popping up randomly in North Carolina?

As if my brain were revolting against these frightening thoughts, my eyelids suddenly became impossibly heavy, my vision dimming. The last thing I knew before my exhausted body drifted me into sleep was a familiar man's voice, conversing quietly with Two-Braids. I caught only snippets of their conversation, and even less for their strange language.

"…iyotanya… Wahwala Zuzeca…"


The next morning, I awoke before it was completely light out. I no longer felt nauseous, nor was I shaking with exhaustion. I felt great in fact. At least, comparatively to yesterday.

I sat up, finding myself to be the only occupant of the hut.

Where is everyone?

Groaning as I stretched my slightly sore limbs, I got to my feet, pushing the deer skin flap aside, and poking my head out. The sunshine was bright compared to the windowless hut, making me squint. The air was crisp, and I wish I had one of those fur parkas I saw some people wearing the day before.

"Wahwala Zuzeca, ayanyapa. Bon matin." I hear to my left.

Bon matin. Good morning.

It was Kuruk, sitting on the ground outside the hut, sharpening his knife on a whetstone. He paused to hand me a bowl full of green plants, beans, and what looked to me to be the cooked leg of a rabbit.

"Bon matin," I replied, sitting next to him and digging in, "Karuk, oui?"

"Oui," he said softly, nodding his head, keeping his focus on his work.

He seemed tired, dark circles under his brown eyes, and it occurred to me that he had been sitting here all night. I recalled the expressions on some of the villagers' faces yesterday. Some were so viciously bitter, their gazes almost predatory while looking at me. Even One-Braid and Two-Braids, who washed me and fed me, seemed to be holding a churning kind of resentment towards me.

I had a sneaking suspicion that I had him to thank for my peaceful night's sleep.

"Merci, Karuk," I paused, searching my mind for enough French words to properly thank him, and promptly giving up, "Thank you, for saving my life. I would've been dead by now if it weren't for you."

He lifted his gaze from the knife to my eyes, seeming to understand my meaning, though the words he could not comprehend. We sat in amiable silence for a while, as I finished my breakfast.

"Qu'est ce que c'est... Wahwala Zuzeca?" I asked, setting the bowl down in front of me on the cool grass. He kept saying that phrase, Wahwala Zuzeca.

It must mean something important in his language.

He smiled for the first time I'd been with him, his teeth rather straight and white, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges.

"Joli petit serpent."

"Pretty little snake?" I say, a peal of laughter escaping my grinning mouth, and Karuk's smile widened at the sound. I recalled the feeling of being watched that night, thinking it was just the snake's presence. Apparently I'd had another visitor to my fire, one much more well hidden.

"Ils ne vous tueront pas, Wahwala Zuzeca," he said, his smile fading slowly until he was frowning again, as seemed to be his resting facial expression. My own smile disappeared much quicker, my heart skipping a beat.

Wait, what? They won't... kill me?

I didn't know that was even an option.

"Pourquoi est-ce qu'ils... me tueront?" I said, looking at him with eyes that betrayed my shock, tumbling my way over the French words as I attempted to say them correctly.

Why would they kill me?

He gave me a brief look of what seemed like disbelief, then fixed his eyes on the ground, continuing to sharpen his knife.

"L'homme blanc. Votre gens. Ils sont la mort pour nous. Ils chercent la justice."

The white man. Your people. They are death for us. We only seek justice.

Ancestral guilt gnawed at my heart. I supposed he wasn't wrong, but I didn't know they still harbored such strong feelings about the whole complete and utter betrayal thing; with the stealing of their land, and the killing of their women and children with reckless abandon, and the spreading of deadly diseases...

I suppose those kinds of scars run deeper than I thought... Something time can't really erase.

Still, it's not like I did it! I don't deserve to die for what my ancestors did, hundreds of years ago!

"Mais... je suis innocent!" I say, wanting to defend myself further, but not knowing the words to do so. He nodded, his face hardening despite his agreement. I briefly wondered if something might have happened more recently, before realizing that was ridiculous. White people didn't just attack reservations in this day and age, it would have been all over the news. I clear my throat, wracking my brain for a much-needed change in subject.

"Comment est-ce que vous avez... apprendre Francais?" I said, genuinely curious about his fluency in the language. His French was very fluid and perfectly accented, almost like the native French speakers from the movies we'd watch in French class. How did French get to a reservation in the middle of North Carolina?

"The traders, they speak French, and they taught me, many years ago," he said in French, getting to his feet all of the sudden, holding a hand out to me when I didn't move to follow, still processing his words. I was a bit rusty, after three years of not speaking it.

What are the French doing in North Carolina still?

I remembered reading about the French fur traders in class, dealing with Native Americans back in the day. I didn't realize it was still a commercial relationship, French traders and Natives. I thought that had ended sometime after the early 1800's.

How positively... nostalgic.

I put my hand in his and allowed him to pull me up to my feet, automatically following him when he began walking away from the hut. He seemed to be my only friend in this whole village, and if the dirty looks we were getting from practically everyone we passed were anything to go by, that notion was more correct than I knew.

One man spat at my feet, which I barely managed to move in time to evade. I gave him a look halfway between confused and furious, and he held my gaze with a stone-cold hatred that gave me shivers down my spine.

The sooner I get out of here the better...

"Est-ce que..." I paused, trying to think of a way to ask what I needed to ask.

Can someone help me find my way home?

"Je voudrais... aller... Je dois retourner." I said finally, my speech broken and unsure, but he nods knowingly.

"There will be traders, who will arrive in six days. They will buy you, and they will help you.." He said, and I turned the words over in my mind slowly. I must have misunderstood.

Buy me?!

"Ils me acheteront?" I repeated his French, and when he nodded, ignoring the incredulity in my voice, I shook my head, "No way, you can't do that."

"Ils sont hommes bien."

"I don't care if you think they're good men, good men don't find themselves in the habit of buying other human beings." I said, my anger throwing all knowledge of French out the window. Kuruk turned to me quicker than I could have expected, causing me to stumble back a step. His strong jaw was clenched.

"Les gen vous tueraient si vous n'etes pas utile. Les commercants vous acheteront, et les gen seront content. Comprenez?" He said quickly and quietly, one hand around my arm, the other clenched at his side.

My people will kill you if you are not useful. The traders will buy you, and the people will be content.

I pursed my lips, clenching my teeth against the English retort on the tip of my tongue, knowing it would do me no good. If I had realized I'd be risking my life anyway by coming with him, I might have just taken my chances with wandering the forest in a dehydrated daze. Apparently, each option was just as safe as the other.

"Je voudrais partir. Les gen..." I let out an exasperated breath, jerking my arm from his grasp, "Your people can't keep me here, and they can't threaten me, like some kind of prisoner! That is so many kinds of illegal!"

He saved me from death by starvation just so he could sell me to some French hillbillies. Buy low, sell high, indeed.

And here I was thinking he was a friend. What a fucking joke.

"Vous etiez mourant... Je n'ai pas d'autre choix." Kuruk must have seen the betrayal in my eyes, behind the outrage, since he had the decency to look at least a bit remorseful. My eyes shifted from his to the opening in the wooden wall surrounding the village, several yards behind him.

While, yes, I was dying... you had no other choice, huh? Well I have a few choices to make, myself.

He followed me gaze, shaking his head, a warning in his eyes.

"They will kill you," he said, his French becoming oddly accented, the force with which he said it bringing his native tongue's flair for harsh syllables, "You will bring a good trade, but cause trouble, and your worth will mean nothing."

"Why?" I whispered, giving up on the idea of running away. I had no clue where to go anyway. Kuruk hesitated, a shadow passing behind his eyes, and I recognized it suddenly. It was a wave of grief, gone as quickly as it came... The same grief I felt every day.

Someone he loved has died... recently, too.

"Your people came to us, speaking of trade and friendship, but bringing with them betrayal and death. They killed many of us, for what true reason, we do not know," he hesitated, as if unsure whether to divulge more information. Apparently deciding against it, his chin jerked up, against the emotion that threatened to show in his face. My throat tightened, and I had the urge to reach for his hand to comfort him.

Even if he had planned to get all human trafficky on me... He did save my life, and he has been kind to me when he really had no incentive to.

"I am very sorry... but how can that be?" I asked, my French even slower than usual while my mind raced.

Maybe white people did go around attacking reservations... But how did no one know? How did this happen, with no media coverage, and no police intervention? I get that they're isolated, but... That would be ridiculous.

"I do not pretend to know what drives the hatred of the white man," he replied, venom in his voice, "Follow me."

I obeyed mechanically, sill in a bit of a daze. Was I really so uninformed that I didn't know about race wars going on right here in the state I'd lived in for three years?

Kuruk led me to the larger of the huts, pausing outside the entrance, prompting me to peek inside. There were a group of women and young girls inside, sitting cross-legged in a circle, vocalizing and humming a tune. They had long strings of what looked like a roughly hewn twine, weaving with quick and adept hands.

"You will work here each day until the traders come. Ma-kawee will show you what to do. Do you remember where the wokheya was?" he said, and for a moment I was confused, thinking I was simply misunderstanding a French word, until I inferred what he meant. The hut, where I slept last night.

"Yes." I said, and he nodded, giving me an encouraging little push into the weaving hut.

"Good. Come back when Ma-kawee says you are finished, Wahwala Zuzeca."

He backed away, raising his eyebrows and nodding towards the weaving hut's door when I just stood there, feet planted. Sudden anxiety kept me from moving. The harshness of the Native Americans towards me made me loathe to leave Kuruk's side. He was the only one who did not look upon me with some degree of hatred. What if I didn't learn quick enough and they decided to kill me?

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the dimly lit hut, and their vocalizing petered off as each one noticed my presence, my intrusion.

"Hau," I said, as I had once seen a Native American say as a greeting in a movie, waving my hand awkwardly. The older women did not find it funny, but the young girls chuckled, murmuring to each other. My cheeks flared red.

"Ahi, wasicu," said the eldest of the women, sitting at the back of the hut. The girls giggled at whatever she had said. When I made no move to respond, not knowing how or what to do, she jerked her head in a clear gesture. Come here.

I scurried to obey her, kneeling next to her, acutely aware of each pair of eyes upon me. The younger ones were simply curious, but the women held that now familiar, blaming look in their eyes.

The elderly lady handed me several strips of the rough string, pointing to her eyes and then to her own woven braid of rope.

Watch me.

So I did. Her eyes were kind and wise, her hair whiter than fresh snow. The skin of her hands and face were worn with years of hard work in the sun, but she moved as quickly and as surely as her younger counterparts, if not more so. I began to copy her movements, a complicated five stranded braid that I had to undo a few times, but she was patient with me.

After a while, they seemed to forget my presence, and began singing again, the spirit and soul in their voices sending chills down my spine.

It sounded like days past to me.