Page 57 of The Rebel King

“But under all the things we’ve done and become,” I say after a few contemplative seconds, “I think we’re basically the same.”

She tilts her head back to catch my eyes, smiling. “You do?”

And in just this moment, it’s like déjà vu, and we’ve been here before, said these things before. I’m the guy and she’s the girl, her innocence reincarnated, my ideals resurrected, and it doesn’t matter if we’re in a field of tulips or under a canopy of stars. We believe again.

“We had to learn how to play the game,” I say, “and the rules may have changed, but our goals haven’t. Our endgame is still the same. Make this crappy world a better place.”

“I guess you’re right.”

She pulls my hand to her lips and kisses my fingers one by one, and with that simple act of affection, a rare, fathomless contentment saturates the air. A meridian of seconds where I’m completely satisfied, and at least for this handful of moments, there’s nowhere to be, nothing to gain, and this is enough. This,sheis the first time I’ve tasted enough, and I savor it on my tongue, hoard it. Fold it into my hands to memorize the feel of complete satisfaction. An entire kingdom fits in this boat. My whole world rests against my heart.

Lennix leans up and takes my mouth in a kiss so gentle, so loving, I believe she’s completely content, too. For tonight at least, there’s nothing to do, nothing to conquer or pursue. All the power in the universe convenes here, throbbing and humming between our bodies.

And it is more than enough.

CHAPTER 22

LENNIX

Not only did Maxim and I cruise on the glowing bay, watching the dinoflagellates perform their fantastic underwater circus, but we camped for the night.

In a tent. With a sleeping bag.

Considering Maxim’s wealth, I expected at least glamping, some tricked-out mansion-tent big enough to drive a Mack truck through, but no. It was just a tent and the most rudimentary camping equipment. We zipped our sleeping bags together and shared each other’s warmth, reminisced about the past, and passed our dreams of the future back and forth between each other.

I left Maxim there this morning, still zipped up, his hair slumping forward boyishly into his face, and struck out for a run along the coast. In the months when I prepared for my Sunrise Dance, I trained rigorously to endure the physical demands of the ceremony. Personifying Changing Woman, the first woman, was supposed to help me gain command over my weaknesses and even activate my ability to heal.

I need all those things now more than I did even then, but this woman has a lot more baggage than a thirteen-year-old girl. I find that peace more elusive. They say Changing Woman runs east so she can run into her younger self. What would I say to that younger girl?

With my run complete, I quietly pull my bag from the tentwhere Maxim still sleeps and rummage until I find the items Mena gave me. I head for a jutting rock overlooking Tomales Bay. Legs folded beneath me, I spread out the simple elements for smudging: a bowl, sage, wooden matches, and a feather. I light the sage and watch the smoke rise from the bowl before picking up the feather and using it to coax the smoke over my face, my head, my eyes, ears, and heart.

Traditions are the memories of those before us, breathed to life when we carry them on. My hands reach back, straining through time for the peace my ancestors found even in the midst of unimaginable loss and injustice.

I haven’t smudged in so long that at first, I feel like a phony. Like I’m going through the motions of something that could be wasting my time, but when I close my eyes, I see Mama in the mornings. She liked to smudge outside. She said when you call on the four directions, you start with the east, and she could never remember where that was. Seeing the sun showed her where to start. We laughed, but really she just loved to be outside, to breathe fresh air.

The idea is that the smoke attaches to the negative things in our lives, in our bodies, in ourselves, and draws them out. They float away with the smoke. There were days Mama was only outside for a minute or so. But there were other days when, through a cloud of smoke, I would see tears washing her cheeks. It’s only now that I carry my own pain, that I have my own healing to do, that I wonder what she was healing from. I don’t think the smoke is magic. For me, it’s one of those practices that connects me to the elders and reminds me of their strength in the face of upheaval and violence and disenfranchisement.

Mena said to start with intention or an affirmation. What do I even say? Do I say it out loud?

“I will live this day in gratitude,” I whisper, the words mingling with the smoke I scoop over my face. “Grateful to be alive and breathing and able to give and receive love. I will face every obstaclewith the boldness of those who follow me and with the courage of those who came before.”

Behind closed lids, I’m suddenly transported again to that dank cave, blind inside the black bag. It’s so disorienting my head swims. Just as I feel those iron fingers gripping my throat and the ground falling away beneath me, I breathe in the sage. Fear, panic, and anger slowly recede, and I wonder if it’s as easy as breathing in and breathing out; as surviving one breath to the next, one day at a time, healing in my own way.

I’ve regained my ground and breathe deeply, honoring the four directions, starting with the east, the dawning of a new day—new beginnings. Putting the old behind me and embracing what is ahead.

After a few more minutes, I stand and overlook the bay that used to belong to the Miwok tribe. They’d been here thousands of years when the first settlers came ashore.

Save the man, kill the Indian.

That was what those missions were for—to eradicate everything that made ususin hopes we’d become what they wanted us to be. The acculturation of a people who were doing just fine before the boats came. After the missions were long gone, some of the Miwok were still here.

That’s me. I have no idea what’s ahead, and I’m still healing from the past, but I have to believe that, like the Miwok, I’ll remain, planted, rooted, and still standing.

CHAPTER 23

LENNIX

“Owen, Lennix,” Millicent Cade calls from up the hall, excitement lighting her voice. “It’s on!”

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