The Indian from Manhattan

By VIOLETTE JEAN

About the novel: The Indian from Manhattan

With his twelve years of New-York City life, when Albi, nicknamed: Bibi, together with his parents, invade briefly New-Mexico for a well-deserved vacation, he is completely unaware how his life will be altered. Ah, but the land of enchantment is the ideal setting for Bibi to meet his karma. Because there, in the wild Gila mountains waiting for him, is White Eagle, an Apache Shaman, moreover, the keeper of Bibi's destiny. Since the dawn of time, gifted Shamans have battled for life's continuation, and likewise, others with blackened hearts have strived to abort the light. Will Bibi join forces with White Eagle and his friends: Ardeshir, the lion king from Persia, Geronimo, and the Asian Duyi, the Norse Navagiak, and the fiercest and scariest of them all, the African Gatura? Is he ready to dedicate his immortality to the pursuit of life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: CHRISTINE MYERS
• Release date: Sep 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386300571

VIOLETTE JEAN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I am at the early stage of a writing career. Forever I have been an avid reader, and over the years, stories of my own, have popped into my head. Humbly, but with determination, I have resolved to transfer them on paper. Born in France, I have been from a very young age, fascinated by the English language. Years later, having lived in the USA, I have taken upon myself to write my stories in English, although I also write in French, when I feel the story benefits from it. It has been a challenge, but I have enjoyed every minute of it. At this point, I would be grateful to have the opinion of readers everywhere. As for what genre my writing is? I don't really know, since my stories can differ widely, but all have in common, usually, a specific time period, and death. But, this is why, I really need you, readers, to guide me in this endeavor, and I think we have some interest in common, a really good story.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright information:

THE INDIAN FROM MANHATTAN

© Christine Myers, 2017 — No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

PUBLISHER: Please contact, Christine Myers at: [e-mail]

Chapter 1.

THE SUN WAS POURING through the yellow curtains of my bedroom, warming my face, burning my retina, behind my eyelids. I love to wake up in this way. Today, I am in a hurry to get up. It is August 4th, and my parents and I are on vacation, and we are leaving this very morning for New Mexico. It will take four days of hard driving, but I'm so excited I don't care. I rush to the kitchen for breakfast, as I am always starved in the morning. My mom is already dressed, in jeans and a bright red shirt. She's so cute and young looking, outfitted like this, way better than the regular clothes she wears for work. She has a full-time job in the kiosk that sells newspapers, books, magazines, snacks, and candies, at Grand Central train station in New York city. She starts at six o'clock in the morning, receiving and unpacking newspapers and finishes at two in the afternoon, when the other two women take over for my mom and her colleague. This is hard work. She barely has an opportunity to go to the bathroom or eat lunch. Rain or shine, holidays or not, she's there. Work comes first and the train station never closes, thus the kiosk she tends never closes either. But she loves it. She loves the hustle and bustle, meeting people from around the globe, chit chatting even just a little, when time permits, with celebrities and her regular customers. She brings me autographs of authors she meets, and the new release of books. For this morning though, she's free for a month, and she looks happy flipping pancakes. I hear the front door, and dad walks in the kitchen, Rusty on his heels. Rusty's our cocker spaniel. I am as always, amazed by his shiny copper color coat. He's all excited too, as he knows something afoot. Dad has already loaded the Ford Escort, and he is grinning at Charlotte, my mom, a silent thanks for the wonderful smell of the cakes. It is not often we are together for any meals, and eating eggs and cakes is a real treat.

WE HAVE BEEN ON THE road three long boring days now, through Pennsylvania, a nice state with valleys and mountains, but from Ohio on, it was long flat lands stretching for miles and miles. Oklahoma was the same, but for the earth that is red, and the number of reckless drivers. At last, we are entering New Mexico, the land of enchantment, so the welcome sign says. And at first, I am grossly deceived, because there is not a tree, a mountain, or a blade of grass. It is as bad, flat and desolate as the Amarillo, Texas panhandle. I actually miss the Midwest and the acreages of yellow corn fields. We stop for a bite to eat at Tucumcari, on historic route 66, a small city that has seen better days in the fifties. It doesn’t do anything for me, all that old stuff, maybe for my parents, yes, as they are smiling at some of the neon signs of the motels. There are a few businesses, motels, diners, but most of them are closed, and we end up buying cold sandwiches at the gas station. Its attendant gave us a hard time about paying cash, wanting only a credit card. That's a new one for us. We've never heard of cash not being accepted. It goes against our logic. My mom says it shows that they are afraid of being robbed. Well, great, that tells me that this is not a safe area, if people will rob a crummy gas station for $100 worth of business at best. We have made it to Albuquerque, and it is a big city with lots of spread out subdivisions, built in the local architecture, Spanish, and Pueblo Indian, which is new to us eastern city dwellers. It's all very earthy, and flat, scarcely any ranch homes have steep gable roofs here, as there is no huge amount of snow to deal with. With hardly any tall structures, the buildings are low to the ground with few windows, similar to bunkers, denoting the Pueblo style. I like the colors of the structures, pale yellows, burnt orange, ochre, and sand. Grassy yards are almost non-existent, instead, landscaping here is achieved with lots of colored gravels and rocks. Not very many mature trees, but pine trees, Mexican elders, cactus and ocotillos, which are strange, tall spreading branches with sharp needles.

WE BEGIN THE LAST STRETCH of the journey this morning. We are in for two hundred forty miles today, maybe some four hours of driving, and we are all eager to reach our destination, Silver City, New Mexico. Early afternoon, we're finally there, and my dad heads for '' Bear Creek Cabins '', a few miles outside of the city. His friend Edwardo, who works with him on the same team for the New York Times, suggested that Eugene, my father, take us to stay at the cabins, his cousin Miguel and his wife Guadalupe run. I like this place. The cabin is small but tall, and from the bedroom's balcony upstairs, I feel as if  I am in a tree house with pine branches reaching higher than my eyes can see. The whole property smells like a Christmas tree, with birds, mostly woodpeckers, everywhere in the foliage, posing as ornaments. It's a nose feast for Rusty, and I can't control him. He is on a rampage, his snout vibrating with pleasure. Miguel and Guadalupe treat us to a cookout in their back yard, and we learn a lot about the region, things to do, and about the natives. They are so familiar with the history and geography of the area, and definitively have a talent for captivating their audience. I intently listen to their every word. With their lively description of the terrain in the Gila mountains, its inhabitants, the Apache Indians, the everyday struggles of the early settlers, the harsh life of the miners in Pinos Alto, vivid images flood my mind, and I think, why can't they teach us in that manner in school?

MY EARS WOKE ME UP next morning, with the chirping of  what seemed a thousand birds. It was similar to being trapped in a giant bird cage. As I opened my eyes, I knew I was not in New York city. For one thing, there are no birds in my neighborhood, and Rusty would not be down there chasing squirrels, yapping happily. Dad is not up yet, and I realize he's probably still tired from the last four days of staring at the endless blacktop. Meanwhile, mom is busy cramming our belongings in a pretty, but minuscule dresser. She turns and gives me my favorite gift of the day, a super charged smile. I mosey on to the nearest trail outside the property, with Rusty showing me the way, as mom yells to come back in twenty minutes when breakfast will be ready. It is, even at this early hour, very warm, and I welcome the shade of the Ponderosa pines. The sandy path is carpeted with dry needles, and I can see how wild fires start around here. I bring back with me two rocks I picked up because their color appealed to me: molted whites and pink, in a satiny finish. They must contain quartz and iron. At the picnic table on the front porch, enjoying some really fresh farm eggs, we put together a plan for the day. Nothing too strenuous, says my dad, as he is still wanting to recuperate.

WE ALL AGREE TO START the regional visit with the towns around us, Pinos Altos, sitting near the continental divide, the mine of Santa Clara, the ghost towns of Hanover and Fierro, and finish with Silver City. Once the trunk of the car is loaded