Like A Charm

She chanted something under her breath, so low that even straining he could not hear her. Something flashed in the deep, dark black of her eyes and she held out her hand, the bracelet in her palm. Macon could see the charms, but his mind gave no name to any of them but the bear dangling at the end. This last charm she held swaying over the fire, so close her skin must have burned, yet she did not flinch.

The gold slowly melted and began to drip into the flames until all that was left was a tear-drop-shaped lump of gold with the red stone in the centre. As Macon watched, the woman took the bracelet, held it above her open mouth and bit off what was left of the bear. It sizzled on her tongue, then her neck moved as she swallowed. All Macon could think was how good it would feel if she swallowed him.

As a trader, Macon had wandered all over these mountains. He knew the peaks and valleys like a man knows his own heart: the Coosa and the Tallapoosa, Licklog, Slaughter Gap. Paths had been cut into the ground by Macon's own two feet as he trapped and killed, ski

Yet, that night, stumbling upon the woman, Macon was shocked to find a people he had never known. The Elawa weren't like the other Indians Macon had seen. There were no tepees or mounds or animal skins strewn about. The woman's solitary dance was nothing he had ever witnessed during tribal rites or war parties. They spoke no English and seemed uninterested in learning any. He was not even sure what they called themselves. 'Elawa' had been a name of Macon 's own design, borrowing from the Cherokee for earth.

They were living out of shallow caves carved into the belly of the mountain, scraping up gold dust and smelting it into jewellery the likes of which Macon had never seen. The quality of their work was remarkable considering the meagre tools they used: blunt instruments that seemed better suited to grinding flour than performing delicate deviations in heat-softened gold. The men toiled all day, their backs curved into permanent arcs as they held a round wooden platform between their feet, turning it this way and that with their toes as they created art that Macon knew would fetch significantly more up north.

Other things about them stood out. There were no useful animals around the compound – no horses or cows or even donkeys. Dogs had free reign of the site, but the people parted for them as if they required deference. The tribe flinched at the sight of the skins Macon offered to trade for their gold charms. Even when he brought out his better merchandise: deer, bear, chinchilla, they recoiled as if the death he held in his hands carried some kind of contagion.

After the woman had finished her dancing, a powerful-looking young man whom Macon took to be the chief came up the hill, his headdress riddled with solid black feathers, his body painted in animal designs: rabbit, snake, lion. Behind him was a gnarled old man who leaned on an even more gnarled walking stick. His eyes were cloudy white, like spoiled milk, his teeth as black as night. Red clay was smeared all over his body. Black dirt from the forest marked his naked genitals.

From the cotton pouch the man wore at his side, Macon guessed this was the medicine man, the healer of the tribe. He tried a smile, not wanting to get on the man's bad side, knowing instinctively that this was the most respected man in the group.

'Lapacha ko wanee,' the old man snarled. He reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of black dirt and threw it on the ground with disgust. Macon had no idea what it meant until the man spat on the lump of dirt three times in rapid succession.

It was a curse.

'Ha,' Macon tried to laugh, saying the word instead of making the actual sound. Indians had cursed him all of his life. There was nothing this old dirt-covered coot could do to Macon that hadn't been done to him already.

The chief clapped his hands once and the woman from the fire appeared. A crowd had formed, but they parted for her, and he understood that she was something special to them, something precious. She was dressed in a simple band of cloth round her waist, her bare breasts high, dark nipples taut enough to make him bite the tip of his tongue. The thin bracelet she had held over the fire was clasped round her wrist, the remaining charms tinkling as she moved.

She took Macon 's hand and led him to one of the caves, showing him a root cellar. In it were several baskets of berries and roots taken from the forest and dried for the long winter. At the back of the cave in a sort of altar was a metal chest, animals of the hunt carved into the open top. A bear similar to the one from the fire reaching up to strike; a snake slithering along, fangs bared; a bird swooping down from a tree. Inside the chest was a mound of fresh earth. Macon stared at the dirt, his vision suddenly blurring. Was the dirt shaking? Was there a subtle vibration under his feet?

Without thinking, Macon moved forward, putting his hand in the cool earth. The moist darkness surrounded him. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he saw visions: a man playing a musical instrument he had never seen, a woman dancing on the tips of her toes.

The visions snapped like a flash of lightning as the woman slapped his hand open, scattering the dirt on to the ground. With her feet, she pressed the earth into the ground, mumbling something under her breath.

Macon tried to apologize, though he did not know why. 'I didn't mean-'

Her piercing black eyes met his, and he felt paralysed again, rooted to the earth. She walked towards him. Her body pressed into his, her mouth just inches away. He inhaled her, took in her breath. His mind reeled and he leaned back against the wall, intoxicated.

She followed him, grinding herself harder into him until his cock stood out and his hands were exploring every part of her. Currents of desire spread through his body as she palmed him with her hand. Her other hand explored his chest, fingers curling into the hair, stroking across his nipples until she felt the beating of his heart.

She stopped, her hand over his heart, a question in her eyes.

'Yes,' he whispered, wanting her so badly his teeth ached in his head. 'Yes,' he breathed. She could have anything she wanted so long as she kept touching him.

Their mouths finally met and she sucked on his tongue, sucked his breath so that his lungs felt spent. Stars spun in front of his eyes and again his mind flashed on strange images: a key that wouldn't unlock any doors; a locket that held the secret to death; a kneeling angel who could not atone for any sins.

Then, just as suddenly, it was all gone. Macon found himself lying on the forest floor with nothing but the clothes on his back. No gun to hunt, no snares to set, no horse to carry him back to the woman. Though everything seemed familiar, he had no idea where he was. For three days, he travelled, judging his progress by the setting sun. At times he felt he was going in circles. Even the streams seemed to flow in the wrong direction. Night-time, he fell asleep on the south bank, only to awaken the next morning on what seemed like the north. Three days of this passed. Three days of hunger, of longing, of misery.