My Name Is Cree Read online

  My Name is Cree

  By T.K. Richardson

  Copyright T.K. Richardson 2021

  Under International Copyright Law no part of this book may be reproduced without the express written consent of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead, past or present, is strictly coincidental. It does not represent or depict any actual places, events, customs, peoples, or traditions. This work is solely fictitious and is based on the author’s imagination and inspired by the author’s memories, family, and forest home.

  Cover design by HumbleNations

  Editorial by ChinaRose Richardson

  In memory of my father

  I will always remember what you taught me, both in word and in deed. Your faith in Jesus, your love of family, and the traditions you passed down. Memories of powwows, of your tireless work bent over pieces of leather sewing tiny beads onto your regalia, of you dancing to the drums, and playing the drums. Your love of music and motorcycles and hard work. Your stories of our Irish and Lenni Lenape heritage, the turtle necklace you never took off and grandpa’s silver and turquoise watch (I have both), and the American Indian sign language you taught me (that was useful when you couldn’t talk – only you and I knew!). You instilled in me a love of the forest, of nature, and the old ways and I live them now.

  Thank you, Dad. I remember everything.

  Acknowledgments

  To Falcon (Ed Vance, author of Trained by a Hound Dog)

  We are cut from the same cloth - people who love the old ways and live the old ways. Thank you for all the tips on tracking bears and lions, for the way you help people simply by the way you live in these mountains we call home, for sharing your stories, for guiding people even when you don’t realize you are doing so, for all the long talks and all the good advice, and for those Mickey Mouse pancakes. You’re an inspiration.

  When government researchers invade Cree’s forest, she must flee and seek shelter among Tore Warriors – lethal and fierce. The legends and myths about the Tore people collide when she falls under their fold – legends of Forest People and shapeshifters, but learning their secrets may prove fatal.

  Secrets no dweller knows…

  Caught between her own fierce nature and Three Scars – her assigned protector, they face danger from all sides. The closer she draws to him a new concern arises – her growing dependence on Three Scars battles her wild and free spirit and she must reconcile her heart or face the consequences. But Three Scars holds secrets of his own, and the closer she gets the more dangerous things become.

  Every step deeper into their forest threatens to keep Cree far from hers. She must fight for her life, learn to trust her heart, and find the answers that can lead her home – but home may be closer than she thinks.

  My Name is Cree is a full length YA paranormal romance novel (229 pages)

  Chapter 1

  A thick mist surrounded me in Dogwood Forest and I squinted to see beyond the moist droplets suspended in the air. The chill stung like tiny icicles jabbing into my cheeks and eyelids, and my breath slipping out between measured steps melted into the thick white clouds. I stepped forward with light, careful movements, my eyes trying to spot any branches or pinecones in front of me.

  Early spring resembled harsh winter except it brought with it the emergence of bears. Hungry bears. I trained my ear to hear their wide paws padding through the snow and hoped to avoid being their next meal, but bears were the least of my concerns, and my trek through the forest in two feet of snow prevented total silence. The snow melted slightly during the day and froze overnight, so my boots crunched through the top layer of ice with each step.

  I glanced over my shoulder, quickly scanned the perimeter directly to my right and to my left, refocusing straight ahead. I purposed to reach a clearing up ahead by dusk, make camp, find something to eat, and light a fire.

  A branch snapped to my left, and I froze, my eyes darting to the sound. My heart trilled in my chest as a dark figure loomed through the mist, just beyond a clear view. Too narrow to be a bear, and yet too big to be a man. I held my breath, my hands feeling clammy inside my rabbit mittens. Time stopped and my heart sounded out the seconds as I counted one full minute since the branch broke and the dark figure blurred into view. Much can be learned in the silence, and much can be given away by reacting too quickly. An animal can smell me, and smell fear. A person can’t, and right now I was more concerned with a possible tracker, than a wild animal looking for a meal. I breathed out slowly and waited ten seconds. The figure didn’t move, and if I moved one step either way it would give my position away.

  “Lost?” It sounded like the wind carried a garbled question, but the wind can play tricks on the senses, so I reached for my bow, fluidly sliding it over my shoulder and into position. I zeroed in on the figure, now hazing between dark and light, between mist and something else. Maybe a shadow, or a granite boulder, or a massive tree. The form was indistinguishable from being positively identified as either friend or foe or something yet to be labeled. It seemed to breathe out a growl or an unintelligible word, its form diminishing, and then vanishing in the mist. I lowered my bow, breathed in deep, scanned the area, and moved forward with quick, light steps.

  My plans changed instantly. There would be no camp in the clearing of Dogwood Forest, no fire, no hunting or foraging for something to eat. I’d be a sitting target now that something, or someone, may have witnessed I crossed into the forbidden land.

  My mind raced with alternatives. Could I find a shallow cave to stay in until morning, or should I keep going through the night? The latter idea was not the best plan because mountain lions hunt at night and I’d be no match for a hungry cat I couldn’t see coming. On the other hand, I didn’t know the area and finding a cave with so little daylight left would be a miracle.

  I glanced up to see the sun not right above me but hidden somewhere beyond the thick forest nearing the horizon. Through the heavy clouds engulfing me I found the brightest spot of light and imagined a golden sunset over the mountain peak, but it was only imaginary as a sunset in this forest never occurred – the trees were so tall the sun was only visible between 1:00 and 3:00 each afternoon. And not at all today.

  I kept moving, pushing forward, listening for branches breaking, twigs cracking, pinecones falling, and trying to ignore the loud sound each one of my steps produced. They rang out into the forest.

  The path before me was only visible if you recognized the signs. A narrow leading through tall cedars where no underbrush or saplings grew, the sparse grass stood tall in places the snow had melted and revealed no one walked the path recently. The careful removal of the saplings and the pinecones ensured the trail wouldn’t be lost to the forest. I focused on the path ahead, clear and ambling, threading before me, even though it was only visible a few feet at a time.

  Air rushed past me and a loud tree knock sounded ahead. I stopped, my breath coming out too quick, my heart pounding, my eyes searching for something or someone.

  The mist lifted to a haze and I blinked. The clouds dissipated slightly, swirling up and around, pushing its force to either side. I scanned the center of the path, now clear, but somehow heavy with a presence that tingled the back of my neck.

  My hands trembled and I stepped back.

  A group of shadows stepped out from the tree lined path, silently, with ease, like phantoms with their bodies following right in step. Three shapes resembling men engulfed in the mist, their stature becoming clearer as the moist fog swirled to each side of them.

  My jaw twitched and I envisioned the smooth reach to my bow, quick draw, and the slight release of my arrow. A quick glance to my left where the mist roiled in indecision, would be a quick
cover.

  I zeroed in on the figures.

  One in the middle, his lined face creased, his shoulders slightly stooped. His eyes held mine with force, deep green like the forest, his skin like the earth beneath us, his hair the color of the clouds above us, shockingly white and falling around his face, a leather poncho draped over his shoulders. I scanned the three of them and refocused on the one in the center. If these were the people I believed they were, his place in the center revealed his importance.

  He cleared his throat, a slight cough escaping his lungs, and raised a hand.

  “Nation?” he asked.

  “No, nation,” I said, my voice strong, unafraid. “But I come with a message for the Tore People.”

  “We are Tore.” His voice sounded like rushing waters.

  The wind blew and pushed through my fur cape, the smell of smoke wrapping around me, the air turning a pale white again.

  I glanced up and then back to him.

  “What nation are you?” he asked again.

  “No nation,” I said. “A dweller from beyond the forbidden land, across the river.”

  He nodded.

  “What is this message? And who sends it?” he asked, although it seemed to be a formality.

  I slid my pack from my shoulders, and from the front pouch I pulled a small envelope with strange writing on it, sealed and folded. “This is from Birch,” I said.

  His mouth twitched and he bowed his head slightly.

  “Where is Birch?” the elder asked, as the other two walked toward me for the envelope.

  I had no answer. It all happened so fast. More Tore Warriors appeared behind them, out of the mist, searching me for answers I didn’t have. They scanned my fox fur cape, my bow, my pack, my hair, and my eyes. I glanced away, trying not to show worry. I shook my head slightly and said, “I don’t know.” My voice caught on the last word and I cleared my throat.

  “You will stay with us for now. We saw you coming and have prepared for your visit,” he said. It was not an invitation. His commanding tone said so.

  The thought of the shadowy figure earlier came to mind, but it was too big to be a man, yet too thin to be a bear. I glanced away.

  “Our warriors have been following you,” he offered.

  Beyond him several men stood tall, their forms appearing through the mist. Fourteen or fifteen warriors, their hair braided or left loose, some with cropped hair, many with a red stripe painted across the bridge of their noses.

  I held my head up, but my heart pounded a little harder.

  Rumor spread among the dwellers, those who had no nation, but remained in the forest even after the government closed public lands or claimed eminent domain of private land, that these warriors were fierce, silent, lethal entities their foes never saw coming, and no witness was ever left to identify them. A rumor. Silent streaks in the night.

  I swallowed and hoped I was neither an enemy or a threat.

  “Come,” he said, extending a thin arm.

  The three elders turned, and their people parted and opened the path so they could pass. The elders walked with fluid steps into the mist. I stood still, not sure I should stay, but even more uncertain where I might go instead. Returning home by the creek this soon was not possible. Too dangerous. But staying in the presence of Tore warriors felt more dangerous.

  I lingered.

  One of them glanced back, his hair lay in a single thick braid down his back, his neck scarred with three long welted streaks. He briefly narrowed his eyes on me. A low growl permeated the air between us, and though no words were spoken, he commanded me to follow.

  I clenched my jaw and stood up straight. Flinging my pack over my shoulder I quickly touched my fingers to my bow. I stepped forward. I was not welcomed into their fold, but neither was I allowed to go my way.

  We walked for an hour or so. The land was steep and rocky, peppered with cedar trees and oak trees much like my part of the forest. Creeks snaked through the land, water as plentiful as most other parts of the forest I was familiar with, but the notable differences were in their meadows. Though the sun set as we walked, and dark soon surrounded us, the mist had floated away and the moon lit our path. I saw several meadows free from thistle and saplings. The snow was not so deep that they would be buried beneath them. No, this land was cared for, nurtured. I followed from a distance memorizing the terrain, and the paths we took. I hoped to retrace my steps when I left the Tore People.

  We entered an enclave of granite boulders and manzanita, the red bark a stark contrast to the grey and white rock all around it. I followed as we traveled over a smooth dirt path that felt soft to my step, and near a crackling river. The dark of night was heavy around me, and my muscles ached with each step. I walked for nearly a week on my journey, and now my legs and calves shivered, their strength waning by degrees.

  We came into an open area and a large fire in the center illuminated the night. The group of men disbanded leaving me alone. Maybe twenty tipis spread across the flat ground, another several dozen wall tents and pitch shelters dotted in between them in what appeared a random pattern, but from what I knew, nothing was random. Everything had a purpose, even their dwelling placement.

  I went to the fire, drawn by the warmth, and dropped my pack. I put my bow next to it and rummaged for my water canister. I pulled a small tin of honey out along with it, hoping to eat a little bit before resting. I drank the cool water and breathed a sigh of relief. Holding my hands closer to the fire and trying to keep my eyes from growing too heavy. Everything in me wanted to lay down, close my eyes for a few minutes, but the adrenaline coursing through me wouldn’t allow it.

  I glanced up as several of the warriors and the three elders approached the circle of flames and sat down. Shadows danced across their faces, their dark eyes glinting through the flames between us. The scarred one sat directly across from me, never looking my way. The elders were handed a wooden tray of meats and fruits, biscuits and flatbreads. They took a portion and passed the food toward me. I took a slice of meat and a piece of flatbread, placed the tin of honey on the tray and passed it to the warrior seated nearest me. Pleased, he opened the tin, dipped his hot biscuit and sent the tray of food on to the next person. I followed the tray until the warrior with the three scars received it. He stopped for a second, glanced at me, tore a piece of flatbread and lay a slice of the meat on top. He passed the tray and folded the flatbread over the meat. He didn’t look back at me.

  We ate in silence.

  “We have much to discuss,” the elder said, wisps of white hair falling over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, when the sun is up, we will have that discussion. Tonight, it is late. We are tired, and we have a guest. Who has been chosen to welcome her?”

  A slight stir among them made my stomach knot up. “I can sleep by the fire,” I said and stared into the flames to avoid the uncomfortable topic.

  “I will open my tent,” a low, growl-like voice said. I glanced over at him, a warrior who looked about twenty-five maybe, darker than the rest, but darker eyes, too. “I am Running Bear,” he said, focusing his eyes on me.

  “No, I will open my tent,” the one with three scars said. He turned to the younger warrior and held his gaze.

  I held my breath.

  Of all the warriors, he was the tallest, the most wild in appearance, and his fierce glare on the path reminded me of how deadly he was. The first warrior looked around, and the elders sensed something I didn’t understand. Was this a challenge? Was this their custom? Was I in danger?

  “Then she is your responsibility,” the elder said and nodded to the warrior with three scars on his neck. “No harm is to come to her, and all threats must first pass through you. Her life is your responsibility.” Three Scars nodded and glanced at me through the fire. I dropped my stare and wished my request had been acknowledged. A rustle to my right stole my attention and the first warrior stood to his feet, dropped his food in the dirt, and walked away. His shoulders rigid, his steps quick.
r />   Several long minutes passed, and the other warriors rose and walked away, pushing away their tent or tipi flaps and disappearing into them. The elders seemed to float to their feet, and talking low among themselves, walked away. Their dwellings were near each other in the center of camp.

  That left me and Three Scars. The fire between us. My bow beside me. My choices gone.

  “Come,” he said, and stood to his feet. He skirted the fire ring and came near me. He lifted my pack but left my bow and turned to leave. I stood to my feet and brought my bow up with me, hooking it over my shoulder. He went to the outside of the camp, making a wide semicircle to the right. He scanned the woods beyond, his gaze shifting to somewhere deep in the forest beyond. I followed his steps and his line of sight. The faint sound of rustling stopped me quick. Closing my eyes for a split second to focus, I couldn’t place what caused the sound. I opened my eyes to see Three Scars watching me, a questioning expression on his face.

  “Bear?” I asked.

  He smirked and turned, walking away. A tipi pitched between two cedars appeared in the dark and he walked straight to it. Lifting the edge, he motioned me inside. Every ounce of me cringed, but I obliged his gesture. Inside lay a pile of bear skins, and a small fire pit surrounded by small stones, ash at the bottom, with a stack of branches snapped in two beside it. He assembled the wood, struck a fire and pulled a pot dangling from a rope. He pointed to the pile of furs and placed my belongings next to it. The furs were larger than the ones I had. Six maybe seven deep. The bed looked comfortable, warm.

  “What are you called?” his eyes flicked to me, a mix of anger, curiosity, and something else I couldn’t place.

  “Cree,” I said.

  His face revealed what I suspected. He knew my name already.

  “What’s your name?”