UnDivided (Unwind Dystology 4)

“No one should face the council without a lawyer and a doctor,” Chal says as they make the drive to Council Square. Then he gives Lev a mischievous smile. “Besides, irritating the Tribal Council is part of my basic job description.”

“Yes,” says Elina, feigning irritation, “and it’s kept you from being the tribe’s attorney general.”

“Thank God!” says Chal. “I’d rather be representing the tribe’s interests out there in the world than be stuck handling the tribe’s piddling internal affairs.”

Lev shifts the heavy backpack he holds on his lap. The Tashi’nes haven’t asked what’s inside. He’d tell them if they asked, but he knows they won’t, if he hasn’t offered to share it. They do know the nature of his petition, however.

“You don’t need to do this,” Elina tells him. “As long as you don’t bring trouble on us, you can stay.”

And that’s the problem. Because trouble is exactly what Lev means to bring to the Arápache. Their minds and souls need to be as troubled as his.

• • •

The Arápache council chamber consists of chairs around a huge donut-shaped table made of fine reservation-grown oak. On the outside rim of the table sit the chief, several representatives from key clans of the tribe, and the elected tribal officials. Twice a week they meet for public forum to hear the suggestions, complaints, and petitions of the people.

The circular setting was designed to reflect tradition, but somewhere along the way it was decided that petitioners stand in the table’s ten-foot donut hole, thus making it an intimidating process, because with eyes on you from every direction, one begins to feel like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.

According to Chal and Elina, the Tribal Council was unofficially aware of Lev’s presence on the reservation long before he left to apprehend Wil’s kidnappers, and they had unofficially chosen to look the other way. At the Tribal Council table, however, there will be no “other way” to look. Today Lev puts himself beneath the heat of the magnifying glass.

“I can’t say this is wise,” Elina tells him as they enter Tribal Hall, “but we’ll stand with you because what you’re doing is noble.”

They can’t stand with him, however. Each petitioner must make his or her case alone. When it’s his turn, Lev leaves Elina and Chal to watch from the gallery above, striding alone through a small gap in the O-shaped table, and into the center of scrutiny.

As he steps into the circle, the elder members of the council posture and grunt in disapproval. Others are merely curious, and a few smirk at the prospect of being amused by the sparks that will surely fly. Clearly they all recognize him and know who he is. His reputation sails before him like his spirit animal through the forest canopy.

The Arápache chief, while just a symbolic position these days, is the voice of the council, and Dji Quanah, the reigning chief, has mastered the wielding of imaginary power. He has also embraced his traditional role. His clothes are carefully chosen to be reminiscent of old-school tribal garb. His hair is split into two long gray braids that fall on either side of his face, framing a square jaw. If modern Arápache culture is a marriage of the old and the new, Chief Quanah is the ancestral bridegroom.

Chal warned Lev that in spite of the circle, he should always address the chief. “He may not have the true power of the elected officials, but things never go smoothly if you don’t pay the respect that’s due him.”

Lev holds eye contact with the chief for a solid five seconds, waiting for the chief to begin the proceedings.

“First, let me congratulate you on your role in bringing the parts pirate to justice,” Chief Quanah says. And with that formality out of the way, he says, “Now state your purpose here,” already sounding

put off.

“If it pleases the council, I have a petition.” Lev hands a single page to the chief, then gives copies to the others assembled. He’s a little clumsy and awkward about it, finding it hard to overcome the intimidating petition process. There are eighteen seats in total around the table, although only a dozen people are present today.

The chief puts on a pair of reading glasses and looks over the petition. “Who is this ‘Mahpee Kinkajou’?” he asks. It’s rhetorical—he knows, but wants Lev to say it.

“It’s the name I’ve been given as an Arápache foster-fugitive. The kinkajou is my spirit animal.”

The chief puts down the petition, having only skimmed it. “Never heard of it.”

“Neither did I, until it found me.”

“Your name is Levi,” the chief states. “That is the name by which you will be addressed.”

Lev doesn’t argue, even though no one ever called him Levi but his parents. And now his parents don’t call him anything. He clears his throat. “My petition is—”

But the chief doesn’t let him finish. “Your petition is foolishness, and a waste of our time. We have important business here.”

“Like what?” Lev says before he can filter himself. “A petition to name fire hydrants, and a noise complaint about a karaoke bar? I saw the list of today’s ‘important business.’?”

That brings forth a half-stifled guffaw from one of the elected council members. The chief throws the councilman a glare, but seems a bit embarrassed himself by some of today’s other petitions.

Lev takes the moment to forge forward, hoping he can get it out with only a minimum of verbal bumbling. He’s certainly practiced it enough. “The Arápache nation is a powerful force, not just among Chancefolk, but in the larger world too. Your policy has been to look the other way when people take on a foster-fugitive AWOL. But looking the other way isn’t good enough anymore. This petition urges the tribe to openly and officially accept kids trying to escape being unwound.”

“Toward what end?” asks a woman to his right. He turns to see a council member about Elina’s age but with more worry lines in her forehead. “If we open our gates to AWOLs officially, we’ll be inundated. It will be a nightmare!”