The Indian Man

There was an Indian man sitting at a 45 degree angle from me at the campfire. He wasn't handsome. He had those jowls that bulldogs have and a white scar that zig zagged from his nose to the corner of his lip. I didn't know his name. In fact I hadn't said a word to him. But he intrigued me. I also couldn't stop looking at him. He was mostly quiet, and people would say things to him, and his directness and lack of social skills eventually pushed them away. He just tended to the fire. I don't know if he liked doing it. But he never stopped. And he had this old fashioned lantern that he filled with some sort of bullshit from his knapsack. Yeah a knapsack—with those colorful leather strips hanging from it that I saw in Pocahontas or whatever. The fire crackled and burned and a part of me wondered if he was on this pilgrimage almost for some sort of revenge reasons. There was a slight anger in his expression underneath the stoic look. He also stayed awake long after everyone else passed out. He would stare at the night sky and occasionally jot stuff down in a leather journal. Jesus, everything was leather with this guy. I had avoided his gaze whenever he looked my way when suddenly I heard my name. The Indian guy had said it. 

"Joshua," he said. Pure American accent juxtaposed with his very native look. 

"Hi," I whispered so as not to wake up the motherfuckers next to me. 

"Come over here."

I did. He pointed at the logs and poked the fire one last time and fell asleep instantly. I tended to the fire as best I could, but it eventually went out around 4am. I was pissed, and the Indian man woke up. He looked pissed but didn't say anything as he stooped over and blew on the embers. I hadn't realized the embers were still awake and the fire kicked up quickly. 

"Nice," I said with a smile. 

He did not return the smile. But he did grunt in satisfaction as he piled a single log on top. "We'll leave soon."

"Yes," I said. 

"But while I have you I'll explain my purpose," he blew on his hands and stretched. "My daughter was raped by a priest at San Maria la Real."

"Fuck," I interjected. 

"The monk there invited her for hospitality and took advantage of her on this very Camino we're on now. Most everyone is here for a spiritual awakening or some inspiration. I want to meet this monk."

I remained silent with the burning question: to what end. He must have intuited that. 

"My people have a long history of abuse. If I sought revenge I would have stayed in the States. Plenty of work to do there."

I rolled my eyes internally. Woke bullshit. He saw something in my expression.

"I can appreciate your point of view. I prefer that over sympathy. The sympathy is usually fake anyway."

I felt ashamed and wanted to pretend I hadn't thought those thoughts. I shut up realizing it would be futile. 

He continued. "It's important for me that you walk with me. I want someone genuine. Even if I think you're fucked in the head."

I nodded, red faced. "Sure."

We walked side by side and I shared his meals. I smoked with him at a few stops and he turned out to be quite the talker. I almost wished he'd shut up sometimes by the time we reached the monastery, San Maria la Real. 

We walked through those doors and he scanned the monks praying in their weird sideways pews facing the altar from both sides. 

"A monk with a mole on his neck and a beaked nose," said Jeff (yes, that was the Native American's name. I'd also started calling him Native American at this point). 

"Okay?" I said, feeling that that wouldn't narrow it down. 

It did though. This one dude's nose was disgustingly large, and his neck had a mole with more colors than I thought possible for a mole. 

"We will sit," said Jeff. 

And we sat in the back of the Church until the monks stopped the praying and chanting and singing. It felt long as fuck. 

Jeff politely asked the monk we'd identified if he wouldn't mind staying behind. At first the monk looked perturbed, but he saw Jeff's hand reach for a pipe and tobacco. The monk raised his eyebrows and stayed as the other monks filed out. 

"We're tired," said Jeff. He lit the pipe for the monk and let him take a few puffs. The monk was pleasantly surprised. 

"Didn't think your people had stuff this good," he said. 

I felt heated. Until I remembered I'd only recently adopted a "woke" mentality.

"Our people have a lot of quality stuff indeed," Jeff said. "But we also have our share of brutality. The scalpings, the civil wars, etc.. But our best quality, our most noble quality, is our treatment of guests. Even foreign pilgrim guests learned the ways of the forest from us. How to hunt, how to commune with nature. How to grow crops, hunting and fishing, food preservation. We shared our lands. We shared our homes."

The monk rubbed his eyes, looking bored. 

"While there is no word for sin in our culture," Jeff continued, "I think we'd both agree that harming guests is wrong, no?"

The monk remained silent but slowly raised his eyes. But Jeff's tone with so casual that the monk made a quick decision and nodded saying, "Yes, yes we can agree on that."

"I'm glad you do," said Jeff, now solemn. "That's why I'm here. To bury the hatchet."

Jeff pulled an old hatchet with an axe on one end and a spike on the other. And he swung it at the monk so hard and so fast that my eyes blurred. When I came too I realized he had buried the hatchet in the pew inches from the monk. The monk screamed in terror and began to sob. 

"I'm sorry I'm sorry..." the monk repeated this many times along with other prayers and whimpers for mercy.

"So you agree harming guests is wrong, yet you did it to my daughter. Impregnating her."

"She's—" the monk exclaimed.

"Oh don't you worry about the baby," Jeff said. "You will never meet it. And neither will any of us."

He paused. "You'll notice none of the monks have come back, hearing your screams. That's because I've written a letter to your abbot. And you've been expelled as of now from this monastery. You may give me your robes."

"You can't do this," the monk said, trying to laugh (and failing) and with a shaky voice. 

"But I can," said the abbot, stepping out from the back of the Church. 

"W-What?!" cried the monk. 

Jeff stooped lower to meet his eyes. "I suggest you hand me your robes now. I'd rather not have to strip them from you. Here is some money for lodging, but from that point on you're on your own."

The abbot chimed in, "Jeff didn't tell me he'd give you any money, so be grateful for that."

I watched as the monk left in his undershirt and pants. 

He looked outraged but had no words. 

"You said no revenge," I commented some days later. 

"Is that revenge? Or did I help him find a way forward? He now has a chance to reflect and forge a new path. He knows I was merciful. He knows I spared him."

"Yeah but he may be dead or penniless now."

"He may," said Jeff. "Okay maybe there was some revenge."