Ancient Island Read online

  Chapter 15

  Lost Childhood

  The Indian Chief was gone; Matt was alone. He could feel a force pulling him upward. The light grew brighter as he ascended until it was blinding. He had risen to the river surface, staring into the sun.

  “Are you O.K.?” Dan shouted from the tree limb over the river as he frantically reached, grasping Matt’s shirt collar. “Man I thought you were a goner! You’re lucky I caught you before you floated away.”

  Matt began describing his encounter with the Chief, struggling to catch his breath. Dan started laughing while helping him back onto the limb. His story sounded ridiculous.

  “You’ve been dreaming,” Dan chuckled. “You were under water for less than a minute. There wasn’t enough time to have a conversation or even say hello.” Dan raised his arm like a Native American greeting in an old western movie, “or should I say ‘how’? And what kind of Indian Chief is named Billy Bowlegs?”

  Matt sat on the limb, a dazed and confused eight-year-old boy. “It felt so real,” he said. The whole incident was a fading memory within a few minutes. Despite his wet clothes and the knot on his head, they continued searching for arrowheads until their stomachs started to rumble. Then they headed back to the gathering for lunch.

  Matt’s drowning vision didn’t seem important. Dan forgot about it until two weeks later when Matt brought it up in school. He asked the history teacher if there was a Seminole Chief named Billy Bowlegs. The other students heard the question and laughed at the funny name, but the teacher didn’t. She was intrigued.

  “Who told you about Billy Bowlegs?” she asked.

  “I talked to him on my Thanksgiving vacation,” Matt answered.

  “Umm, I don’t think so,” she said. “He’s been dead quite a long time.”

  “Well he said he was Chief Billy Bowlegs,” Matt replied.

  Matt’s teacher, Mrs. Johnson, knew Chief Billy Bowlegs (more accurately known as Holata Micco) was considered by many to be the last great Seminole Chief. Mrs. Johnson was amazed at the breadth of Matt’s knowledge, especially the details. Matt spoke with authority as if he personally knew the Chief.

  Mrs. Johnson chatted with Matt like an old colleague for more than a half hour while students giggled each time they heard the funny name. Matt’s teacher concluded he must have attended an historical reenactment performed by Seminole Indians while he was on vacation.

  From that day forward, classmates greeted Matt with “how’s Chief Boney Bowlegs doing?” That’s when he became known as the kid who talks to dead Indians.

  Matt wasn’t bothered by teasing from his classmates, but he was troubled by his vision of an Indian Chief. The apparition was gone but the message remained. “You have been chosen to make a difference.”

  By the time he was a teenager, Matt had become a determined crusader for government reform. His father gave him a poster from the musical “Man of La Mancha” as a joke. Rather than seeing the humor, Matt displayed it on his bedroom wall as a symbol of his devotion to the cause. He had become Don Quixote, the mad knight following an impossible dream.

  It was becoming increasingly clear that creating a system to represent people from many different backgrounds and cultures was almost impossible. He grew increasingly negative over the next few years and even began to question his faith. Stunned friends frequently heard him say, “God doesn’t exist; it is up to us to change the world.”

  Matt’s cynicism faded during high school after reading Norman Vincent Peale’s, “The Power of Positive Thinking.” He grew more optimistic that men could solve conflicts through logic and reasoning, but on April 20, 1999, the Columbine high school massacre reminded him that humans frequently do things that make no sense.

  He was still despondent months later. It took all four of his close friends to coax him to the river for their sixteenth birthday fishing trip. Matt didn’t tell the others, but his vision of a Seminole Indian Chief returned when the lightning struck. As Matt lay face-down in the water, the apparition appeared.

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  “I am here to deliver two messages,” the Chief said.

  “Thanks Chief but I’d rather be left alone. I’ve been miserable since the last time we talked.”

  The vision of the Chief grew more intense, “Life is a journey my friend, and you have taken the wrong trail.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Matt asked.

  “You are moving further away from what you know is true in your heart,” the Chief replied.

  “I am doing everything I can, but it’s hopeless.”

  “It is only hopeless if you try to do it alone,” the Chief calmly replied.

  “Really? Matt sneered skeptically. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re a figment of my imagination.

  The Chief sighed, “That is the problem; you have stopped believing. If I am an illusion, how do you explain what you learned from our last encounter?”

  “That’s easy,” Matt answered, “I must have read or heard about you somewhere. The memory stayed in my subconscious until I hit my head falling into the river. I am probably experiencing something similar now.”

  “Then perhaps my first message will help you see more clearly. Haley King is not like you.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Matt asked.

  “You will soon understand,” the Chief answered.

  “Why does everything have to be so mysterious? What is the second thing you wanted to tell me?” Matt asked.

  “Listen to God.”

  “I don’t believe in God,” Matt grunted.

  “That’s not true,” the Chief replied, “but you have closed your eyes.”

  “How do you expect me to believe in something I can’t see?”

  “Trust your heart; feel God’s presence. You know he is with you. Christopher Hagan is in your life for a reason, seek him out.”

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  The Indian Chief had vanished. Matt awoke on the deck of the boat with the Etz Chayim symbol burned on his heal. Just another dream, he thought. I’m not falling for it this time!