Tribes (5 page)

I pictured Elissa's foot. Then her ankle. Her midriff. I shook my head. This wasn't the direction I'd intended.

I tried something different: the double helix. Encoded in our genes was almost every step of our evolution. Scientists had mapped the gene; now I had to find a way to follow that map to the beginning. Maybe there was information on the Internet that would help me.

The hair on the back of my neck suddenly tingled. A keen anthropologist develops a sixth sense. I looked up. A familiar broad-shouldered male lumbered around a corner.

I quickly inserted myself into nearby bushes, folded the greenery around me and crouched down. My heart thudded and a sheen of sweat coated my forehead. This attracted the attention of a fly, which tasted my perspiration with its feet. I tried not to think of the fly's previous explorations. A second fly descended. A third. I blinked, raised my eyebrows.

I willed: stillness. In the jungle I would have to deal with hordes of insects. I, Percy Montmount, Jr., could persevere.

Then: Thick trunklike legs became visible through the foliage. I looked up, moving only my eyeballs. Justin loomed. Could he scent me out?

"How're you doing, buddy?" he asked.

I made no response.

"Would you like some ice cream?"

Was this an attempt to bribe me out of my cover?

"You're pretty quiet today."

I held my breath. The legs moved down the paved path.

When I was sure Justin was a good distance away, I slipped into the open, nearly bumping into an ancient woman with a walker, a matriarch of the Denture Tribe. "You playing hide-and-seek, son?" she asked.

I shook my head.

Justin was slouching under the bridge, a little boy riding his massive shoulders. My eyes widened. I blinked, watched them disappear.

I followed, my right hand automatically reaching into my pants pocket, retrieving my field notebook. I wrote as I walked. Could this be a breakthrough? Justin displaying affection/ protection in public. Was this a brother—a young Justin in the making? To be trained in the ways of the Jock Tribe? At what point did the rituals begin?

They stopped at a park bench and I stole under the bridge, using the shadows for cover.

Justin lowered his brother onto a bench, then sat beside him. They appeared to be talking. Justin tickled the young recruit. The boy giggle-shrieked. Justin wrapped him up in his arms.

I was stunned. I stepped into the open. Justin looked up, still hugging. His eyes narrowed.

I retreated, keeping the pillars of the bridge between me and them. Then I scrambled up the hill on the other side of the bridge and headed for home, clutching my field notebook like a shield.

six

NAKED AND TIED TO A STICK

My father was always leaving. Most of my paternal memories are snapshots of him loading suitcases into the trunk of a taxi, a sun hat shielding his bald head. Or he'd be standing in line at the airport, backpack slung over one shoulder, flight tickets in hand. He'd perform a wiggly-fingered wave, then disappear through the departure gate. Mom would lead me to the window and we'd wave to his plane. Well, we'd wave to all the planes to be sure we got the right one. Whenever I see a jet bisecting the sky I think of Dad.

His destinations were glorious: the Australian outback, the Far East, Peru, the thick urban jungles of Hong Kong. Places where wondrous events occurred daily. Where dreams came to life. Sometimes we'd read about Dad in the back pages of one of the national papers, see a grainy photo of him standing beside an ancient statue or sitting among African tribesmen.

Invariably, two months, three months, even six months later, Dad would return and wrap me up in his arms, smelling of sweat and strange smoke. He'd give me a whisker rub. He'd kiss Mom. And we'd take him home. Glorious Dad, back in our little house.

That night, and many nights after, I would wait in my bed, vibrating with excitement. Story time. He'd open his mouth and spin tales long into the night.

My favorite was about how he'd outsmarted the RanRans, a cannibal tribe in the Roterwali Peninsula, near the Amazon River.

Dad was studying the peaceful Wanniwa. During the night the RanRans stormed the village, drove the men away and stole whichever women they could capture. When Dad poked his head out of his hut to check on the commotion, the invaders stopped and gawked at the first white man they had ever seen. He was in a typical anthro outfit: khaki shorts and shirt, unkempt hair (what there was of it) and a pen and pad of paper in hand.

The RanRans encircled him with bamboo spears, poked and prodded him through the jungle vines to their canoes, then paddled vigorously down an Amazonian tributary teeming with piranha. They stared the whole time. Even warriors in the other boats steered close to eyeball Dad.

At daybreak they arrived at their village. A wall of bamboo spikes crowned with impaled shrunken heads surrounded their homes, dome-shaped huts jutting from the earth. The cries of birds and wild monkeys filled the air.

There's a Bugs Bunny cartoon in which cannibals boil a large pot of water, slicing onions and carrots into it. Then they attempt to force Bugs in, managing only to steam his tail. This potboiling motif is a common misrepresentation. Cannibals tend to bash your head and slice and dice you on the spot. Then they boil you. It's similar to our treatment of cattle.

My father was fortunate because this tribe had strict traditions for food preparation: First the meat was sweated to cleanse it of evil spirits. So, they stripped Dad and tied him to a stake for three days, allowing him only a bowl of water and a handful of fat grubs. He ate the grubs happily because he recognized the nutritional value inside their slimy bodies. Still, he disliked how they wiggled down his throat and quivered in his stomach before succumbing to gastric acid.

The RanRans quizzed him nonstop. Where were you born? Did you come from a white-shelled egg? Were you birthed under a full moon so that the light whitened you?

My father remained silent, stoic. He knew enough of the RanRan language that he could have begged for freedom, but he chose to quietly endure the three-day torture, which left his balding head scorched and his eyes red and dry. Army ants crawled over his entire body, biting him. The tribe believed the ants would tenderize the meat and release the tiny demons trapped by the skin. Dad watched the sun and the stars, kept track of the days, so that even though he was naked and without a watch, he could have told you the time.

They finally untied him and marched him to the roasting pit. He was bound to a spit over a mound of kindling. The RanRans' custom was to cook their food alive because screaming would loosen the flesh from the bones. They began to make a fire, spinning a piece of wood inside a wooden groove to create friction. Just as the smoke appeared, Dad said,
"Kewokee nok nig,"
which meant "Something bad will happen."

The RanRans were shocked. The chieftain said,
"Blegin blog,"
which translated to "Of course." They assumed Dad meant something bad would happen to him. They laughed uproariously, patting each other on the back and slapping their own cheeks, which was their jovial habit.

He repeated his warning and they guffawed and cheek-slapped again. Finally the chieftain approached with a flame. Dad uttered a third warning and the sky grew dark. The chief pulled back the torch and gawked up.

Above them, the sun was going out.

It was a total eclipse. Darkness rushed over the camp. Flocks of birds fled, confused by the sudden withdrawal of light. Only the corona of the sun was visible, burning like the eye of an angry fire god.

The chief RanRan dropped the torch and fled, followed by his tribesmen. The torch sputtered and died.

Within a few minutes Dad had wriggled out of his bonds and the eclipse had ended. The village was deserted.

"Remember, Perk," Dad would always say, announcing the end of the story, "even when you're naked and tied to a stick, there will always be a way out."

It's my motto.

seven

TRAPDOOR

Elissa had chosen a tiny skull and crossbones as her eyebrow ring. "It symbolizes the end," she explained, "the death of our high school personas. This is the final week before we become free."

"Clever," I said. We were in our usual position next to my locker. A cornucopia of humanity had disgorged before us, oddly active for a Monday morning. "They all look so invigorated."

"It's like a drug. Adrenaline rises as Grad approaches. They rush toward oblivion. So are you ready for the parties?"

"Ready?" I echoed. "I'm psychologically pumped. Test me. I dare you."

She laughed. "Okay, Darwin." She knew I loved it when she compared me to my hero. "Let's start with Tacky Party."

"A cross-tribal function. Dress: multicolored clothes. Drink: Yuk-a-flux, a concoction of alcohol and fruit juice. Music: loud. Time: tonight."

She whistled appreciation. A junior looked our way and she winked at him. He blushed. I was momentarily jealous.

"Round two," she announced, "the High Tea."

"Easy! Time: tomorrow afternoon. Once a female-only ceremony; now both sexes serve their elders tea and edibles. Later it descends into a herbivore-roasting feast: a barbecue."

"Is your mom coming?"

I shook my head. "She couldn't handle the smell of burning meat. Plus she teaches yoga then."

"My parents can't make it either. Too busy. Guess we'll be each other's parents. The rest of the week's going to be a blast."

"Yes, the River Party, Neolithic to the extreme. And, finally, ritual of all rituals, the All-Night Grad Party."

"It's a casino this year."

"Ha!" I exclaimed. "We can bet on the odds of Justin evolving."

"Or making it through first-year university," Elissa quipped.

We smiled at each other and she touched my cheek. "Hardly a bruise. You've healed well." Her fingers were warm.
Healing hands,
I thought.
She has healing hands.
The bell rang.

"Take care of yourself," she said, lowering her hand.

"I will," I answered. "I—I'm happy you're going to Grad with me."

She blushed. "Me too, my anthropological angel. Me too."

I was overcome with the urge to hug her. I reached out, felt suddenly awkward and decided to pat her back. "Grad's gonna rock, I promise." We headed our separate ways.

Time passed with ease. Our teachers smiled, dispensing the last bits of their curriculum into our 1350-cubic-centimeter brains. Some great witch doctor had greased the wheels of education, and they spun madly.

They stopped spinning at two o'clock, when I raised my hand in English 30. Ms. Nystrom, a kind teacher with a large birthmark on her left cheek, cocked her head and frowned. "Percy, you have something to say about Shakespeare?"

"Yes, I do." I stood up. The faces of my fellow students expressed a mild curiosity, as though a large insect had rested on my forehead. "Shakespeare was an amazing
Homo sapiens
, but his volumes of creative output can be reduced to one impulse: survival. His plays shouldn't be valued as works of art but as scientific proof of how complicated survival instincts have become. His creations were a means to secure food and shelter."

I continued. I cannot remember all I said, though I did trace the history of man's evolution from an anthropoid ancestor to clarify my point. The bell rang. The class immediately shuffled out. I paused in mid-oration. Enlightenment was not their goal. I glanced at Ms. Nystrom, but she was memorizing a spot on her desk.

I hadn't meant to go on at such length. It had just happened. I gathered my books and stumbled into the hall.

Where I ran into the past.

Delmar Brass stood there like a tree, an algebra book clutched in his hand. He was a tall First Nations Saulteaux whose great-great-grandmother had been a member of Sitting Bull's tribe. They had fled to Canada after defeating an American army led by General George Armstrong Custer. They settled briefly in southern Saskatchewan. Most returned to their homeland, though Delmar's relatives chose to stay. I had once interviewed him for an article detailing the influence of cowboy movies on modern perceptions of natives.
Anthropology Today
never published it. In fact, no major scientific magazine expressed interest. My groundbreaking theories intimidated them.

Every time I saw Delmar I thought of the bison running over the plains, the grass growing tall and wild, no European-style cities darkening the land.

"Hear you were in a fight," Delmar said. "Need help?"

His eyes were dark, his hair black and tied back. He had developed an affection for me after the interview—that is, he occasionally nodded in my direction. Even once when he was with his friends.

"The situation is resolved. Thank you."

"Good. Take care." He continued down the hall, his tread surprisingly light.

I deposited my books, examined my watch: 2:35. Time for my appointment with Mr. Verplaz, the school shaman, He-Who-Lives-on-the-Top-Floor. A last-ditch attempt to correct the wayward.

At the very least, it would be a stimulating conversation. Plus he kept a jar of lollipops. I'd get a treat.

I walked slowly, deliberately. On the second flight of stairs, I became aware of the motion of my feet, pictured our ancient ancestors taking their first wobbly steps.

"Why you staring at your feet, Montmount? Afraid you're gonna trip?"

Justin loomed on the landing above me. Had he marked it and the soft-drink machine with his urine? Had I trespassed on his territory?

"I was trying to figure out why we walk upright."

He shook his head. "You're retarded, aren't you? How's your face?"

His tone conveyed no concern, but I replied as if it had: "A scratch and a slight bruise. Thank you for the lesson in tribal interaction."

He glared. "What was that crap in English? Our last class and you barf up another lecture. I should give you a smack." He clenched his ham-sized fist, looked at it; then his eyes flicked back to me. "You followed me in the park, didn't you?"