The old man’s dream had been the same for several days.  He saw a great buck standing beside Atohi’s grave, the deer’s head turned at a sharp angle, staring straight at him.  Eyes wide.  Breath showing in the early morning cold.  His front foot pawed the ground beside the rocks covering the Indian’s grave.  The deer was big.  At least ten years old, with a big rack.  White and gray hair surrounded mossy-looking eyes.  In the dream, the old man tried to count the antlers.  But he was unable to see them clearly.  Sometimes, he dreamed he got a whiff of the deer’s urine, mixed with other smells; pine needles, mountain laurel, layers of oak leaves and black dirt.

In the dream, the old man saw that the rocks on Atohi’s grave were barely visible.  In one dream, it had struck him that he needed to go back to the mountain meadow, and put new rocks on the grave.  He had neglected it too long.  In going there, perhaps he would see that great buck—if he existed in real life.  That’s what he’d like to do.  Soon.  That’s what he’d been dreaming.  To hunt again.  To put new rocks on Atohi’s grave.  Time to—

The old man suddenly opened his eyes and stared straight into his daughter’s face.  She was pulling on his arm.  “Daddy?  Daddy?”

“It’s you— “

“I’ve been trying to wake you!” she told her father.

“Must’ve…been sleeping soundly.”

His daughter laughed.  “I’ll say.”

He reached for her hand.  “I’m…glad…you came up to see me.”

“It is Saturday.”

“Is?”  He sat up in his lounge chair.  “Seems the days all run together.”

“I brought your groceries and put them in the refrigerator, and on the cabinet, and I made you two casseroles, and a quart of vegetable soup, so you’ve got enough meals to last you till next Saturday.”

“Good,” the old man said.  His head cleared somewhat.  “Where’s Boyd?”

“He stayed in Atlanta.  Had to work today.”

“Tell him…come up next Saturday.  We’ll…go deer hunting,” the old man told his daughter with growing confidence.

His daughter squeezed his arm.  “Daddy, you know you can’t hunt no more.”  She paused, and squeezed his arm again.  “Remember?  We agreed last spring, when you wanted to go turkey hunting.  You remember?”

He nodded, and rubbed the whiskers on his chin.   

“You using the electric razor I got you?”

“Oh, yea.  It’s okay.”  He added, “It’s not as close as my straight razor.”

“Good.  I’m glad you’re using it.”  She squeezed his arm once more.  “You know, I wish you could go hunting again.  But, your knees, and that left hip.  It’s just too risky.”

And too old, he thought.  The old man stared at his daughter.  She reminded him of her mother, when she was that age.  He spoke again, slowly, “Joan, we’ve got to go back…to Atohi’s grave.  It’s our family’s responsibility to take care of it.”

“It’s too far for you to hike.  Hard climbing.  And having to cross Goshen Creek.  You might break your hip again—and then what?”  She had an idea.  “Maybe I can talk Boyd into going up there and checking on it, put some new rocks on it.”  He nodded, but remained silent.

   * * *

Monday morning, the old man stood on the paved county road in front of his farm.  He looked up the drive to his house.  Then beyond the house, to empty pastures, to the woods and mountains in the distance.  He watched sunlight shadows move across the ridges as small, fluffy clouds drifted overhead.  The hardwoods were turning.  It was not the peak for color, yet.  Another couple of weeks, he figured.  Then a couple more and frost would come.  Then winter.  He couldn’t abide winter—the cold—like he used to. 

He thought about the land.  Land beyond his farm, up in the mountains.  Land that once belonged to his family, before the government bought it.  Two hundred and forty acres, now part of the Chattahoochee National Forest.  He turned and walked down the road, thinking about the land.  Seeing the hills and draws and the big creek in his mind.  He knew he could make it all the way to Atohi’s grave.  He didn’t know if there might be a big buck there.  He hoped there was one.

He walked the paved road one mile to Benny’s Store.  Benny was alone, standing behind a counter.  He smiled and greeted the old man.  “Morning, Mr. Nix.  How you been doing?”

“I’m good, Benny.  For my age, that is.”

“Ah, they say you are only as old as you think you are.”  Benny tapped his forehead.  “I’m pushing fifty, but up here I figure I’m ‘bout twenty-five.”  He walked around to the front of his counter.  “What can I get you today?”

“I’m looking for some tobacco,” the old man said.

“To smoke or chew?”

“Well…would you have any in cans, like we used to buy?  Years ago.  Like maybe Prince Albert.”

Benny laughed.  “You gonna roll some cigarettes?”

“No.  I just like the smell.  Be nice to have some around the place and, I want to sprinkle it around my barn.  It’ll help keep the skunks away.”

Benny’s eyes got bigger.  “Well dang.  I didn’t know that ‘bout skunks.”

“It…used to work.  Haven’t tried it in years.  But this year, they’re really bad.”

“We’ve had a lot of ‘em this fall.  That’s for sure.”  He pointed to a chair.  “I’ll go to the back room and see what I can find.”

The old man sat next to Benny’s stove in the middle of the store.  It took Benny a while, but he finally came out of the back room holding a half dozen cans.  The old man bought four, two Prince Albert and two Stag cans.  As the old man was leaving, Benny told him that he bet the big hardware and feed stores in town didn’t want people knowing that a little tobacco would keep skunks away.  The old man nodded, and Benny said, “Be careful, walking back up the road to your place.”

That night the old man slept well and did not dream. 

* * *

Tuesday morning, he got up early, ate a fried egg and a piece of toast.  After eating, he filled up his small thermos with black coffee.  He checked the weather again.  It was going to be nice.  High around 65 degrees.  He put on a light coat, and put the thermos in one pocket, and a can of tobacco and some matches in the other pocket.  He removed his walking stick from the nail where he kept it hanging on the back porch.  The stick was a good one, hickory, six feet long.  He’d used it for a long time.  Times like this, he wished that he had a dog.  “I need to get me a good dog,” he said aloud.  He had determined last night that he would not take his gun.  This would be a work trip, not a hunting trip.

The old man walked past his barn, and continued walking in his pasture along the tree line. He paced himself, so he could make the round trip, and be back at his house by the middle of the afternoon.  Once through the pasture, he entered the woods, and quickly found the narrow logging road.  He walked the logging road for over a mile, until it ended.  At that point, he veered north and started up a steep hill.  There were two hills to climb before reaching Goshen Creek.  He would have to cross the creek, and then walk another half mile before he would get to the meadow where Atohi’s cabin had once stood, where the grave was located. 

At the crest of the first hill, he sat down under a white pine and drank some coffee.  He was panting, and his legs had gotten weak coming up the hill.  But, his hip felt all right.  He was making better time than he had imagined.  His body was old, and had been broken in a few places, but he also knew he was tough mentally.  Always had been.  Made up his mind to do a thing, and then did it.  Sarah, his wife, had told him many times, “You’re a tough man, Robert Nix.”  Then she’d always add, “But I still love you.”

Crossing Goshen Creek was easier than he expected.  A big oak tree had fallen across the creek, and all he had to do was climb up on the tree, and walk to the other side.  He had to bend some limbs to get across, but it was fairly easy to navigate.  Goshen Creek, in years past, was hard to cross sometimes.  The water wasn’t very deep, but the creek had high banks on each side.  This time, the old man was relieved when he reached the other side.  He felt good.  He felt strong.  He knew now he would make it safely.  He would return home by the same route, and no one would ever know he’d made the trip.

He entered the meadow quietly.  Everything looked the same.  It’s been at least four years since I’ve been here, he thought.  He walked over to the remains of Atohi’s cabin, on the side of the little field.  The cabin had been very small.  About eight feet wide and ten feet long.  The old man remembered it from his youth.  Atohi had died many years before he was born, but the cabin had survived for a long time.  There was nothing left of the logs, but at one end where the cabin stood, was a large pile of rocks.  All sizes, they once formed the cabin’s fireplace and chimney.

The old man looked around the field as he walked over to the grave site.  The grass was not very high.  He figured that deer had been grazing, keeping the area mostly free of trees and shrubs.  Just as he figured, the layer of rocks covering the grave had sunk, and the tops were almost level with the ground.  He walked to the big pile and began toting rocks back to the grave.  He toted rocks as large as he could lift.  Then smaller ones.  He arranged them neatly on the grave.

When he finished, he rested and had coffee from his thermos.  The old man’s hands were raw, and he had small cuts on his fingers.  His arms ached, like a toothache.  I’ll be sore tomorrow, he thought.  He rubbed his knees.  He stared at the rocks.  They were now a good two feet above ground level.  He was pleased.  He continued to rest and listen.  The forest was quiet.  He supposed if there were any deer around, they would have scattered back up the mountain when they heard him moving the rocks.  He listened for a long time.  Hoping.  Hoping that maybe the big buck from his dreams would appear, but at the same time knowing that he probably didn’t exist.  Sitting beside the grave, he put the empty thermos on the ground.  Then he removed the can of tobacco from his coat pocket.  He opened the can and smelled the tobacco.  It smelled good and sweet.  He placed a small pile on the ground.  Then he struck a match and placed it on top of the tobacco.  He waved his hand over the little fire.  The smoke circled around and up.

Then, he recited the words that he had been taught by his grandfather and father.  Words that he had said at this spot many times.  “Great Spirit, Yowa, smell this tobacco and know that we still look after our good friend, Atohi.  We thank you for the day he saved James Nix’s life near here.  My grandfather.  We thank you for Atohi’s life among our family.  He was a great Cherokee.”

The old man sat beside the grave for over an hour.  He thought about how fast the years had gone by.  It seemed like a short time ago when his father first told him about how Atohi found the young boy, James Nix, beside Goshen Creek with a broken leg and arm.  And how the Indian had made a sled, placed James Nix on the sled, and brought him back to the Nix home. 

Finally, he stood, and sprinkled the remainder of the tobacco in the can over the grave.  “For you, Atohi.  If not for you, I would not be here.  We hope you are with your Yowa, and have good hunting every day, for eternity.”

As the old man stretched his legs and turned to begin his trip back home, he heard leaves rustling nearby.  He stood very still, and listened.  Definitely not squirrel or rabbit.  Could be . turkey, he thought.  But not likely this time of year.  His heart beat fast, and he sat straight down in the grass.  All of a sudden, he could see a big deer, moving very slowly, through the trees and mountain laurel.  He seemed to be circling the meadow, but staying back in the thickness of the woods, moving almost in slow motion.  The deer stopped, and the old man watched him roll his head from side to side.  Then he turned his great rack up and down, and continued circling.  When the deer was back to where the old man first saw him, the deer snorted and disappeared.  The old man listened for movement, and sounds in the leaves, but there was only quiet. 

Later, back home that night, he remembered hearing a hawk, just after the deer disappeared.  Or, so he thought.

# # #

Ed Nichols lives on Lake Oconee, Georgia. He is a journalism graduate from the University of Georgia, and is an award-winning writer from Southeastern Writer’s Association. He has had many short stories published, online and in print. He is currently working on a collection of stories.

Photo: Paul Earle