Willows Gate

Chapter 1 ONCE UPON A TIME

1949: In the foothills of South Carolina, a shiny Ford truck travels down a narrow blacktop highway. Inside the truck cab, Eight-year-old Philip has his nose pressed against the glass of the passenger door as he gazes through the afternoon rain. He watches the clouds rise from the fire of multicolored leaves in the cold autumn air — smoke on the mountain spirits of long ago drifting from a forest ablaze with beauty.

Philip rolls the window down and leans outside. With his arms out-stretched, he imagines that he is flying above the road. His face tingles and burns in the piercing wind as he gasps for his breath; the damp evening air burns his nostrils.

Chester, Philip’s father, grabs him by the seat of his pants and pulls him inside the truck cab. “Get in here, do ya want ta catch your death of cold? Roll that window up before ya get frost bit!”

Philip rolls his window halfway up and stares toward the distant mountains as he twiddles his thumbs. He watches the sun touch the top of the Blue Ridge, and he knows that darkness will come quickly.

The young boy’s mind drifts to thoughts of church; he remembers the sweating boisterous preacher, red faced and slavering into the air, “God made the day for man and the night for the creatures of darkness!” Philip has always been afraid of the dark and wonders what this night will bring.

Chester makes a sharp left turn off the main highway. The truck thumps in and out of potholes as it surges through the tall grass that grows down the middle of this forgotten road.

They pass a sign that reads:

‘WARNING: YOU ARE LEAVING U.S.
GOVERNMENT TERRITORY’

Philip’s eyes widen with the expectation of danger.

At a crossroad in the woods, several Native American braves on horseback swarm out of nowhere. The screaming braves race ahead of them; horse hooves kick dirt and sod onto the hood and windshield of the truck.

Dust flies in through the top of Philip’s window from a pony that runs beside him; he smells its pungent sweat and its bittersweet breath. With his fist together, Philip imagines he is riding a racing pony; he grasps imaginary reins and bounces on the truck seat.

Soon, they are escorted to the outskirts of a field, where the braves scream and yell as they dismount on the run. In the distance, the United Indian Nation dances around a bonfire in traditional festive dress.

Chester parks beside the hitched horses and rolls down his window. He gets out of the truck, reaches through his open window and removes the ignition keys, then walks ahead.

Philip jumps out of the passenger’s side of the truck. Using both hands, he shuts the door and runs to catch-up with his father. Only when he takes hold of Chester's hand does he feel safe.

Philip looks into the heavens; the orange sunset to the west and a full moon at the pentacle of its assent above them. On the opposite side of the horizon, in the lavender sky, between darkness and light, a lone hawk screams for its mate as it soars past a single shining star. Philip watches, as the shimmering hawk disappears into the dark abyss.

While Chester leads Philip toward the fire, festive excitement fills the air. Indigenous People graze from a banquet of agricultural harvest, roasted game and home made brew.

Chief Red Eagle, the spiritual leader stands. His regal features merge into his black shoulder length hair, which flows along the fringes of his white buckskin coat. Multicolored porcupine quills, inlayed on the coat sleeves enthrall Philip — abstract woodland creatures, in vibrant colors of red, green and blue.

Philip and Chester sit on a log near the Chief. Chief Red Eagle raises the ceremonial pipe, and leads his people in a solemn autumnal prayer. “Grandfather, it is you that have brought us to this day and to this place. We pay homage to you, too the four winds of life and the wisdom that is given us. Mother earth has given us this harvest to provide for our soul. It is a good day.”

As Philip watches the wood burn, he looks deep within the fire — white ash, yellow pine pops and crackles, exposing the searing hot coals of oak. Philip believes his father has taken him across time, to a place of long ago. He imagines that Chester and himself are the first white men to be among these Native Americans.

Philip turns to Chief Red Eagle. Bright orange light radiates from the Chief' as a whirlwind of smoke blows around him; tassels of coal black hair abate from his face. With glowing eyes, Red Eagle looks into Philip’s soul. “The magic Little One, you can smell it in the air.”