The Comanche Vampire (5 page)

“Hey, man, thanks,” he said as he swung into the
cab of the pickup.
 
Gary, face already
painted, wore fancy dress.
 
The bright
costume boasted both feathers and beads.
 
It suited Gary and to anyone but Ned, it probably looked authentic … but
it was a far cry from what he recalled.
 
Ancient songs issued from the truck’s stereo system and Ned recognized
the sound of a group called Southern Thunder.
 
He liked their sound although they did songs and chants from many
tribes. They managed to sound authentic because he could shut his eyes and imagine
the old times.
 

“I’m glad you came,” Gary said. “It’s going to be
awesome tonight.”

He turned his attention from the road for long
enough to stare at Ned.
 
He must’ve
noticed Ned’s daytime pallor because he frowned. “You
doin
’
all right? You look
kinda
pale.”

“I’m good,” Ned replied.
 
If he cast a reflection, he’d check it in the
rear view mirror to see how bad he appeared, but he didn’t so he couldn’t.

“Glad to hear it. I thought maybe your trouble came
back or something.”

“No, I’m
feelin
’ fine.”

On the way up to Anadarko, Gary sang aloud to some
of the familiar chants.
 
Ned watched the
play of sunlight over the open land as they sailed along the highway. He
enjoyed the speed and he found the vistas he viewed nothing short of amazing.
It reminded him of what a hawk soaring high in the sky must see. The two men
talked in between as well, their topics alternating between history and sports.
Ned could chat about history all day or night and offer his unique perspective,
but he struggled with sports.
 

He saw echoes of ancient tribal rivalries there,
and the wild loyalties fans often displayed disturbed him.
 
Fighting for your people, home or way of life
was one thing but getting frenzied or violent over a ballgame was beyond Ned’s
understanding. But men talked sports and so he’d learned to dissemble enough to
talk any sport in season. The one positive thing he saw in professional games
was that no one died.
 

Even a warrior, he reflected, grew weary of blood
and death.

As soon as the two men stepped down from the truck
at the powwow’s park-like setting, Ned heard the singers and the drum.
 
The beat of it resonated through his soul, as
if he even owned one, and remained the one thing about powwows he loved. The
drum spoke to him and he felt each thump. They’d known it as the people’s
heartbeat, the sound of the world, the heart of the earth and sky and wind.
Nothing touched him more or felt holier.

His feet wanted to dance the steps and he wished
now he’d brought his seldom-used regalia to dance. A rush of happiness soared
through Ned and he grinned, something he rarely did. Gary noted it and smiled.
“You’re glad you came, I bet.”

“Yeah,” Ned admitted.
 
His friend shook his head. “I don’t get you,
man.
 
I just about have to drag your ass
kicking and screaming to get you to go anywhere and do something.
 
Otherwise, it’d be just work and sleep for
you.”

Work, sleep,
and blood.
 
Ned didn’t speak it aloud
but the thought robbed some of the sparkle from his momentary joy.
 
He grabbed his lawn chair and headed for a
spot beneath some tall shade trees.
 
Gary
followed.
 
Once they’d set up, Gary
headed off to join other dancers and left Ned to his own devices.
 
Ned settled into the seat, glad of the
shade.
 
In it, he wouldn’t look so washed
out.
 
Evening shadows had begun to gather
and it wouldn’t be long until dark. The smell of hot fry bread wafted on the
slight breeze and he thought about buying some. Other stands offered up
everything from cold soft drinks to hot dogs and cheap, China-made, faux Indian
goods.
 

If he wanted, Ned could buy a new hand tooled belt
or a buckle, feathers or even a Cherokee ribbon shirt.
 
Somewhere in the distance he heard kids at
play, dogs barking, and someone singing, probably practicing for a dance. If
Ned shut his eyes, he could almost summon up the past and pretend it was an
evening in his village, before everything went bad.

Several people greeted him, shook hands and paused
to talk.
 
In between, Ned decided he’d
have some fry bread so he went over to buy it.
 
He ate it as he wandered around, checking out the goods for sale.
 
When he saw two red-tailed hawk feathers and
some leather thongs for sale at one spot, Ned decided to buy both.
 
He’d worn such in his hair as a warrior and
though he couldn’t wear them at work, he wanted to wear them now.
 
After finishing his fry bread, Ned braided
his hair in two
plaits
and used the thongs to tie
them.
 
He worked the feathers into his
hair so they stood up in back at a jaunty angle. Ned worked them until they
leaned in opposite directions. He’d heard them sold and called ‘scalp feathers’.
 
Once they’d meant the wearer had taken
scalps, as he had, but now they were mere decoration and affectation.
 
He might be the sole warrior present who had
the right to wear them, and the idea pleased him very much.

He sat down to watch the grand entry, sucking on a
bottle of water.
 
Listening to the drum, and
watching the first dancers come onto the field wasn’t such a bad way to spend
an evening, at least not in this modern age.
 
Ned preferred fishing or riding one of his ponies or walking into the
Wichita Mountains, but sitting at powwow was better than other pastimes.
 
Grand Entry hearkened to something deep
within.
 
The chiefs and important people
came first with the flags including the American stars and stripes. Then the
elders, the male dancers in order from traditional to fancy, then the women,
the younger boys, the girls, and the smallest of all. By the time all dancers
were on the field and in motion, Ned almost wished he were among them.
 
Then the powwow began and he watched. About
the time he settled into the rhythm of things, as relaxed as he ever became,
the back of his neck prickled.
 

What some called a sixth sense, Ned termed
intuition and he never ignored it.
 
Awareness grew.
 
If he’d been out riding
in open country, there’d been a time when such a ripple would’ve warned of
approaching danger, an enemy or a predator.
 
Here, Ned knew what it portended and his senses reacted with mingled
pleasure and terror.
 
He knew where she
stood before he turned his head to acknowledge her and smelled her sweet
fragrance.
 
When he did deign to look,
Anne stood ten feet behind him on his right, her back against a tree.
 
She wore faded blue denim and a spaghetti
strap top.
 
The emerald green garment
left little to imagination, baring her shoulders and the top of her
breasts.
 
Ned watched as she chattered to
another woman, older, grayer, and less flamboyant.
 
He considered ignoring her but decided he
couldn’t.
 
If he did, she’d approach him.

Ned found his feet and sauntered over to Anne.
Although she appeared to be deep in conversation, he noticed the pink blush on
her cheeks, which expanded as he came close.
 
The nonchalant way she flipped her wild mane of hair over one shoulder
indicated her awareness. Until he halted before her, he’d never thought about
what to say.
 

“Hello, Anne,” he said, with quiet dignity.

Her dark eyes lit with fire. “Hi, Ned! I wondered
if you might be here.”

“I came with a buddy.
 
He’s dancing tonight, but I’m not.”

Her lips slanted into a smile. “I like your scalp
feathers.
 
They suit you.”

“Do they?”

Anne nodded. “It makes you look like a wild
Comanche from the plains.”

What could he say to her?
Yes, that’s exactly what I am
.
 
He didn’t think so and said nothing.
 

She studied him with a frown and then snapped her
fingers.
 
“That’s it,” she cried.

“What?”

“You reminded me of something when I met you the
other night.
 
I thought you looked
familiar and now I’ve placed it.
 
You
look a lot like
Pea’hocso
, one of the last Comanche
to surrender with Quanah Parker at Fort Sill.
 
I’ll have to get the picture out now and see how much, but I’d swear you
look close enough to be his twin.”

Ned’s body tensed.
 
No one ever pegged him for
Pea’hocso
from a
photograph before but he’d heard the same thing, long ago. After the surrender,
when he’d first become a vampire, he moved out near where he now called home
and kept to himself.
 
No one found it
strange, but when he didn’t age and the others who knew him like their own hand
did, he’d had to leave the area for a while.
 

He returned after Teddy Roosevelt deemed it as a
refuge and national grasslands. Quanah Parker had been on hand to greet the
buffalo donated by a zoo back east and when he saw
Pea’hocso
,
he cried out. “How is it, my friend, you have remained young and I have not? Is
it magic?”

“I am the son of
Pea’hocso
,”
Ned had replied. Shame at his lie gnawed within. The truth, however, couldn’t
be told.
 
“I’m called Ned Big Eagle.”

Over the decades, Ned came and went from the Lawton
area.
 
He took the first name of Edward,
chosen from a man who treated him with kindness somewhere in New Mexico. Ned used
his name translated into English as a surname.
 
Sometimes he’d been Ned, his personal preference but at other times,
he’d been Ed, Edward, and Eddie.
 
Every ten
or fifteen years, Ned left Oklahoma for a while.
 
He returned when he thought he could pass as
the next generation or as a younger brother to the man people might
remember.
 
It was one of many reasons why
he kept solitary.
 
The fewer who knew
him, the fewer who’d recall he hadn’t changed when he came back after a long
absence.
 
Anne picked him out of an old
picture and he wondered what to tell her.
 
He hesitated a few moments too long, because her frown increased.

“Are you all right?” she asked.
 
A faint line between her eyebrows cut deeper.
“You look pale, like you’ve seen a ghost.
 
Or did I say something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t and I’m good,” Ned answered. “You
surprised me, that’s all.
 
Pea’hocso
is my ancestor, my three times great-grandpa.” He
hoped he had the generations close enough to make it plausible.

“Are you serious? That’s awesome,” Anne said with
enthusiasm. “I’d love to talk with you sometime about your family history.
 
Maybe you could share any stories that
might’ve been handed down.
 
I think I
mentioned my specialty is Native American studies, but I did my thesis on
Quanah Parker.
 
Your ancestor would’ve
been part of the
Quohada
too.”

I was,
he
wanted to say.
I can tell you anything
you want to know.
 
I was there. I am
Pea’hocso
.
 
But
Ned couldn’t.
 
He should walk away now,
unscathed and leave Anne undamaged.
 
He’d
bring her nothing but trouble and pain.
 
“Sure, we can talk sometime.
 
I
know a lot of the old stories.”

“Great! Give me your number and I’ll call you
sometime.”

“I don’t have a phone.” Ned didn’t, not a landline
or a cell.
 
With few friends and a near
reclusive life, he’d never needed one.
 
Anne pursed her lips. “Okay, so give me your email address.”

Ned laughed. “I don’t have one of those either.”

She stared at him and then she laughed too. “Do you
live in the Stone Age or what?”

“Just the age of the
Comanches
,”
Ned said before he thought.
 
Then he
added, “I have a television, a microwave, and a stereo.
 
I just haven’t had any use for a phone or
computer.”

“Then how I can get in touch?”

“You can always find me at the casino.”

“I came back, Thursday night. You weren’t there.”
Disappointment darkened her tone.
 
He
couldn’t believe she’d returned.
 
“I was
sick,” he said but the lie sounded lame.

Anne curled her hand into a fist and touched his
face with the finger side. “I hope you feel better now,” she told him and
sounded like she cared.
 
No one had given
a shit about him in so long and the possibility she did evoked tenderness deep
within.
 
Ned covered her hand with his.
 
“I’m fine. Would you like to sit with me and
watch the dancing for a while? Gary brought a chair but he’s not using it.”