The sound seemed to rise from the old Leeds house, gliding eerily on the tips of the tall white oaks and sweet gums whose limbs capped the holler leading into Phenix City’s Pumpkin Bottom cemetery.
Hattie was an ageless tiny black lady with snow white wooly hair cut short all over. Blue gray eyes of a long dead fish on ice peered from a leathery wrinkled face the dark brown color of a well handled buckeye. Eyes that gave you a vague unsettled feeling when she fixed them on you, seeming to look over you, through you, into you, like you were some curious specimen opened for dissection.
Red Owl’s deer skin moccasins slapped against the sand along the wigtacjsji (which roughly translates into where one trips over his guts once in a generation or two because of the return of the Moogly) creek bed as he ran in the darkness. He glanced over his shoulder in fear. He had earned the name “Red Owl” for his daring during the night hours, a time when most Indians of the Creek nation tried to avoid moving alone.
He knew fear now. Not fear of the dark, but fear of that which fed in the dark.