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Indian Summer by Lee Dravis
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Rated "G" by the Author.
As David Byrne said, "And you may find yourself in a beautiful house
With a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, well
How did I get here?"
I awake next to my wife. Outside my window a deer grazes in the yard and the morning birds sing, a typical Saturday. In the kitchen, I am annoyed to find that the timer for the coffee hasn't come on. I realize that the power is out and I'll have to run up to the 7-11 for java . I get dressed, hoping the convenience store has power, grab my keys and step outside.
That's when I notice my neighbor's house is gone. Just trees. Our cars sit in a driveway that ends at a thicket instead of the street. After making a complete circuit of the property, and seeing nothing of the old neighborhood, I return to the house and wake my wife, feeling a bit like James Thurber reporting that he has just seen a unicorn in the garden. Of course she doesn't believe me, not until she looks herself.
In my den I tune my portable radio up and down the AM, FM and shortwave bands. Nothing but static. My wife is trying to call people on her cell, but there's no service. It's cold and we start the wood stove while we talk.
We're a little scared and very confused. I make sci-fi jokes, but my wife doesn't laugh. With the power off, she takes a hot shower while she can. Alone, I feel creeped out and wander into our bedroom and pick up my long-disused 12-gauge shotgun. In the sock drawer I find two nearly-full boxes of shells. I carry the gun into the kitchen, load it, and place it on the table. I stare out the window until my wife comes from the shower. She sees the gun but says nothing.
After a good breakfast cooked on the wood stove, we bundle up. With my shotgun in hand, we follow our driveway into the brand-new woods, hoping to find a neighbor. It is very quiet. We thread our way through thick trees, over a landscape that is both familiar and totally alien at the same time. We pause in a clearing, the spot where our friend Dave's house should be. My wife grabs my arm and points above the tree line. Smoke in the distance. I turn around and look at the smoke coming from our own chimney. Someone else is burning wood to stay warm, too. We set off toward the smoke.
We encounter what seems to be a deer track and follow it through the woods, trying to locate the source of the smoke we see. We hear a scream and we freeze. In seconds, without sound, we are surrounded by, by... well, by Indians! They are armed with bows, spears and clubs and they look angry. One of them makes a grab for my wife and I reflexively squeeze the shotgun trigger and fire a load of buckshot into the ground. The Indians disperse as fast as they appeared, but they don't go far. Shaken, we start to retreat toward home.
An Indian steps onto the path, 20 yards away, blocking our way back. I'm shaking, raising the gun. More Indians melt out of the woods but he Indian blocking our path gestures the others away and they stop their approach. He gazes at us as if we are from outer space. I lower my gun, slightly. There begins a dialog of gestures and tentative words. The other Indians edge ever nearer, now more curious than threatening. They stare at my blonde wife and she pulls herself closer to me. After an hour, we are exhausted and I make it plain that we are leaving. They step aside and let us pass, watching us carefully and we leave them behind. We are too emotionally shocked to speak as we trudge home through the woods, but we both know we are being followed.
It is late afternoon when we see the last wisps of smoke from our chimney. As we walk down our driveway we stop short. Our chimney smoke has drawn visitors. A dozen Indians cluster on and around the Chevy. They see us and do not look happy. My wife pulls out her keys and hits the car alarm button. I think some of them run 50 yards into the woods. But the Indians who have been following us have arrived now at the top of the driveway, behind us. Some are examining the macadam, others gape at the house, and a few die-hards continue to stare at my wife.
"Hold the gun," I tell her, and I take the car keys. All eyes are on me now as I open the door that they couldn't and get in. I can hear the gasp of amazement as this "thing" swallows me. I laugh for the first time today and think, "They ain't seen nothin' yet." I start the car, lower the windows, run the wipers a bit and blow the horn long and loud. Then, I make it move! I go up and down the driveway and across the front yard, honking and laughing hysterically as I scatter Indians while trying not to hit them. Some of them fall as they scramble out of the way and the others are laughing at them. Everyone loves a pratfall.
I re-park the car and take the shotgun back. The Indians are looking at us a little differently now. I see the leader I'd "spoken" with earlier, standing in the driveway. I smile and he does, too, a little. My wife and I move to the front door and go inside. I quickly sweep the rooms with the gun, all empty. Indian faces are pressed against every window, touching them in wonder. I can hear them on the roof. I stand in a rapidly dying house. No electric or communications, and soon no water either, which really scares me. Oh, and Indians, too, who might not be so impressed when my “magic” runs out of gas. And here, my practical wife goes to the freezer and takes out all the ice cream. She grabs a bag of plastic spoons. I look at the crazy woman I married, sigh, take off the safety, and follow her out the door.
Presently, there are approximately thirty Indians in my yard eating ice cream. Some of them seem to be fighting over it. From a book on our shelf, my wife has identified these people as Powhattans, native to this part of Virginia a very long time ago. The Chief (as I call him) sits by my wood stove and enjoys some hot tomato soup while we figure out how to communicate. He glances often at the gun in my lap, but there will be no unnecessary demonstrations of its power. Less than two boxes, I remind myself.
We eat and "talk" until dusk. The Chief rises finally and I see him to the door. Outside, the other Powhattans wait in silence. He looks me in the eye for a long moment. I know the Chief wants to know how my house landed in the middle of his hunting grounds. I'd like to know, too.
I thoroughly enjoyed your SciFi story taking you back to the days of the early settlers while still in possession of modern amenities which eventually will be rendered useless. I like how you broke down the barrier with sharing ice cream just as the early settlers dazzled Native Americans with newfangled trinkets foreign to their way of life.
Quite surreal. Like landing in another dimension. With our knowledge of Indian lore, we have an advantage over those first Europeans who landed on the Virginia shore. We know how to act.
As I read I'm reminded of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.
