Tribes Read Online Free PDF Page B

Could he scent me out?
    "How're you doing, buddy?" he asked.
    I made no response.
    "Would you like some ice cream?"
    Was this an attempt to bribe me out of my cover?
    "You're pretty quiet today."
    I held my breath. The legs moved down the paved path.
    When I was sure Justin was a good distance away, I slipped into the open, nearly bumping into an ancient woman with a walker, a matriarch of the Denture Tribe. "You playing hide-and-seek, son?" she asked.
    I shook my head.
    Justin was slouching under the bridge, a little boy riding his massive shoulders. My eyes widened. I blinked, watched them disappear.
    I followed, my right hand automatically reaching into my pants pocket, retrieving my field notebook. I wrote as I walked. Could this be a breakthrough? Justin displaying affection/ protection in public. Was this a brother—a young Justin in the making? To be trained in the ways of the Jock Tribe? At what point did the rituals begin?
    They stopped at a park bench and I stole under the bridge, using the shadows for cover.
    Justin lowered his brother onto a bench, then sat beside him. They appeared to be talking. Justin tickled the young recruit. The boy giggle-shrieked. Justin wrapped him up in his arms.
    I was stunned. I stepped into the open. Justin looked up, still hugging. His eyes narrowed.
    I retreated, keeping the pillars of the bridge between me and them. Then I scrambled up the hill on the other side of the bridge and headed for home, clutching my field notebook like a shield.

 
     
     
     
     
    six
    NAKED AND TIED TO A STICK
     
    My father was always leaving. Most of my paternal memories are snapshots of him loading suitcases into the trunk of a taxi, a sun hat shielding his bald head. Or he'd be standing in line at the airport, backpack slung over one shoulder, flight tickets in hand. He'd perform a wiggly-fingered wave, then disappear through the departure gate. Mom would lead me to the window and we'd wave to his plane. Well, we'd wave to all the planes to be sure we got the right one. Whenever I see a jet bisecting the sky I think of Dad.
    His destinations were glorious: the Australian outback, the Far East, Peru, the thick urban jungles of Hong Kong. Places where wondrous events occurred daily. Where dreams came to life. Sometimes we'd read about Dad in the back pages of one of the national papers, see a grainy photo of him standing beside an ancient statue or sitting among African tribesmen.
    Invariably, two months, three months, even six months later, Dad would return and wrap me up in his arms, smelling of sweat and strange smoke. He'd give me a whisker rub. He'd kiss Mom. And we'd take him home. Glorious Dad, back in our little house.
    That night, and many nights after, I would wait in my bed, vibrating with excitement. Story time. He'd open his mouth and spin tales long into the night.
    My favorite was about how he'd outsmarted the RanRans, a cannibal tribe in the Roterwali Peninsula, near the Amazon River.
    Dad was studying the peaceful Wanniwa. During the night the RanRans stormed the village, drove the men away and stole whichever women they could capture. When Dad poked his head out of his hut to check on the commotion, the invaders stopped and gawked at the first white man they had ever seen. He was in a typical anthro outfit: khaki shorts and shirt, unkempt hair (what there was of it) and a pen and pad of paper in hand.
    The RanRans encircled him with bamboo spears, poked and prodded him through the jungle vines to their canoes, then paddled vigorously down an Amazonian tributary teeming with piranha. They stared the whole time. Even warriors in the other boats steered close to eyeball Dad.
    At daybreak they arrived at their village. A wall of bamboo spikes crowned with impaled shrunken heads surrounded their homes, dome-shaped huts jutting from the earth. The cries of birds and wild monkeys filled the air.
    There's a Bugs Bunny cartoon in which cannibals boil a large pot of water, slicing onions and