Watermarks The Brothers' Struggle by Nathan Brown

Joey and his two cousins were spotted at the sewer lid in the street out in the front of our house at 9:30 AM. That was the start of our turf. As they headed down the hill into the cul-de-sac and out of sight, I went to inform my brothers of the possible invasion. My brothers David and Mason and I counseled and decided to investigate.

"We've got to move quickly!" David demanded like an old army general commanding a small battalion.

He was fourteen and led Mason, nine, and me, eleven, easily because he was the oldest. David had us gear up and ready to explode out the door in a few quick minutes. We were dressed in old hand-me-down army clothes, jeans, and mud-caked sneakers. We were out of the door and moving through the garage collecting our gear. Both my brothers at different times turned to smile at me. These smiles were loyalty at its finest and I felt it too. I returned quick silent grins to both of them. The cool air of autumn poured a breeze on our heads as we stepped outside and squinted our eyes at the sky clear and blue. We took in the cold, adjusted our eyes, and we were off to the woods in search of the trespassers.

Joey Burba was a pasty, skinny, blond-haired kid with rude intentions and generally knew little to nothing about the woods at the end of our street. His cousins were two lanky, unattractive, young teenage girls who didn't live in the neighborhood but were always here on weekends. None of them returned from the end of the street. I new something was going on.

The Burbas were trespassing, or so we accused, and they had to be stopped. These were important lands to check out, monitor, claim, and reclaim. Up until now we always had the creekside, woods, and everything else east of our house. We were the last on the block and it just seemed right. The Burbas, the Chandlers, the Watsons--all claimed the streets up by their houses for basketball, baseball, and football. We always asked permission to use their streets. It was just how it was in those days. The street in front of our house was a hill and it wasn't any good for those sports, so we claimed the east woods and built a mighty fort to defend it.

We were sure the Burbas were out to find the fort. It was a true treasure for young exploring suburbia kids. Many others in surrounding neighborhoods knew of the fort that my brothers and I built. It was a legend and for good reason. We had the best land, the best supplies for the construction, and a location completely hidden from the world. Knowing about it was one thing, but getting to it was another task altogether. Not many who knew tried without permission, and the few that did never got there.

Joey was different, and his intentions were not to enjoy the fort but to destroy it. This had been made clear in the safety of the school bus. Although he revealed his evil intentions to us, he did so on the school bus where fights only got us in trouble with the public academy and with our parents for sure. Joey sometimes talked big bully talk on the school bus rides home, and some of that talk was a direct comment about the woods.

"You and you brothers think you own the woods at the end of the street and I aim to prove you wrong! A little forest fire would show you good!"

I always wondered why his family ever let him come home. At times he was meaner than other kids. There are no rules in the woods, and the streets did not report home to parents. We assumed Joey would have never attempted an attack alone, and it was clear he brought his cousins for back-up.

We made it out of the garage and down the side of the yard. We met with the first of the wooded trails, cut fresh every summer weekend, that would take us to lowlands deep into the woods, down though the briars and towards the swamp. We didn't think Joey would make the mistake of attacking the fort on a Saturday morning when we were sure to be home, watching and ready to defend. As we saw him and his cousins intrude on our trails, my brothers and I, as if tribal warriors compelled by ancient forces protecting our tribal land, decided to seek resolution. We feared, although anxious about the defense, that this would cause an interaction and perhaps a battle.

David came dashing through the first of the low thick brush past the pines and down the path like a rabbit in his prime. He knew the trails well.

"Silence!," David commanded in a half-whisper.

We grabbed our trail sticks, hidden near a fallen hickory on a secret part of the trail. Then we headed for the woods. These sticks, body length in size, were important to moving across the terrain of the deep swampy forest. Getting to the fort included crossing logs over water, jumping tributaries and clearing newly formed briars that blocked the paths, to where the fort was hidden. I was heading up the rear, Mason was in the middle, and David was leading. Mason and I followed with vigor.

We saw where Joey and his cousins went towards the beaver dam. They left a trail of burned matches, and David pointed out the first of the ashes from their cigarettes. His keen eye always pointed out such minute changes to the land. He could track a raccoon all the way through the swamp, following its tracks. The main path would only take the Burbas to the bend in the creek, leaving thick impassable brush to the left and the beaver dam and creek to the right. The beavers had made a fine dam that year, and it flooded the land behind the thick brush. This left only a thin peninsula of land that they could explore. Across the dam and on the opposite side of the creek from them, the fort lay unseen, hidden just beyond the brush on the other side. The dam, at first glance, appeared to be a good way to get across the creek. But in reality no one could cross the dam without getting wet feet, and sometimes caving pockets in the primitive construction would cause crossers to stumble and fall completely in the water. This was never the chosen route in October because the forecast was already calling for jackets and sweaters.

Joey and his cousins found a nice little place to joke, smoke, and seek endlessly, if they wished, for our fort. The Burbas' primary goal for the first 15 minutes or so was seeking the shelter of the woods to smoke cigarettes. We could smell the faint smell of burning tobacco in the air as we moved quietly in their direction. About the time Joey was lighting his second cigarette, my brothers and I were crossing the second hickory log at least two feet in diameter at the far end of the creek. It was the start of the secret path.

With the distinct smell of tobacco in the air, and the sound of laughter getting closer, we moved like copperheads through the brush on the secret path on the opposite side of the creek. My brother David was still in the lead and jumped a gorge formed from many rains. It was deep and wide and was a sure deterrent for anyone who ever made it this far. The only way to cross it was with the aid of our sticks. My little brother catapulted the gorge and landed on the other side like a trained professional. I followed with ease. We had to move slowly and go extra quietly so that we did not give ourselves away. We came up a hill and around a few corners of the trail, past some high brush, and there it was. The fort. It stood tall. We had made it to the fort in about twenty minutes. This was good time for us. Mason noted that it usually took longer. A mighty stone fireplace adorned the center, a covered lower section gave a little shelter from the elements, and two ladders to two high lookout posts climbed high into the willow's canopy and a river birch. We could see for miles from them.

David whispered, "Stay low and keep quiet."

He climbed one of the lookout posts and spotted the Burbas. They didn't have a clue that we were just on the other side of the creek. My older brother came down and had us construct mud balls with the specific instruction. "No rocks!" he demanded quietly. This was going to be an attack to dirty and discourage the trespassers but not hurt them. So we put together a small arsenal of mud balls and decided to get their attention.

We moved in on the creekside and saw across the beaver dam. The Burbas were clowning around on the other side. We were still unnoticed and found refuge behind a ridge of earth about three feet high. The cracking of dry autumn brush gave us away. The attack was about to begin. We knew that we would run short of supplies because we hadn't made many mud balls before they saw us. The manufacturing of more mud balls was necessary. Mason and I got started right away. We began digging into the ridge and fashioned small, red clay spheres.

Joey yelled dumbly, "If yer mother knew you were out this far from home wouldn't she beat yer ass good? 'The boys must be lost.' Don't cry for mommy!"

These comments helped motivate David to throw the first mud ball. It was at least a thirty meter stretch. He stood up, drew back to pitch, and shouted, "Shut it, Burba!" Then he launched the first of the arsenal. It was a direct hit. When Joey saw the mud coming, he just turned around and caught the first ball in the back.

All three of the Burbas started clamoring profanities. "You son-of-a-bitch!" exploded out of all three of their mouths.

They quickly got into the action and fired back with mud balls, fists full of pebbles, and tree branches of any throwable size. Anything was good for them. A few other mud balls made direct hits on Joey and his cousins. They had little cover, but our ammunition was running short and fast. The exploding mud balls rained on the forest floor in waves across the creek. All six of us were yelling loudly at each other.

The Burbas were losing and getting mad. The rocks got bigger and bigger. David insisted we only throw mud. We were here just to chase them out of our territory. They would get too dirty and go home. This all changed when Joey got a direct hit at Mason. I heard a thud like a bullet that hit Mason in the chest. He burst into tears. It was then I realized the game playing was over. David, as the eldest, always felt like our protector and angrily threw a few more mud balls like cannons, slamming them into Joey. He became the only target. I swelled up furiously and started returning rock fire. I was too mad to hit my target. Joey, yelling profanities and covered in mud, reached for some really big rocks as David landed a few more mud balls on Joey's cousins to keep them scrambling. Mason had stopped the mud construction. David saw me launching rocks.

He yelled, "Just make more mud balls!"

Joey's cousins where throwing just as many rocks and mud balls, but many of them went into the creek or hit the trees.

"Mason, go back to the fort and wait for us there!," David ordered angrily.

Mason, with tears running down his cheeks, ran back to the fort. David and I decided to split up, and I crawled out of range of fire. The Burbas didn't seem to notice that Mason and I were gone. I got away from the flying rocks. I then ran back over the gorge, over the log, and waited at the other side of the creek. I could still hear them yelling. I waited for Joey. I was breathing heavy and was furious when I got to the clearing. Joey and his cousins would have to return this way soon. I had lost my trail stick by this point and was anxious for David to catch up with me. Joey was a little bigger and older and liked to fight dirty. I knew I would need all the help I could get.

The beaver dam was a crude but solid structure. It had trickles of water flowing gently down its face. After Joey also hit David with a rock, my brother decided to cross the unsteady construction. In a rage, David came bounding and splashing across the dam, exploding through the cold water of the creek.

"Aurrrhhh!!!," I heard David yelling in the distance.

In a scare, the Burbas fled and met with me at the clearing. Joey was well ahead of his cousins and had a look of despair as he approached me at full speed. With fists balled and adrenalin pumping, I was ready to fight. Joey, without hesitation, got close to me and pulled out a boot knife. With Mason at the fort and David at the dam, I had no back-up.

"Is this what you were looking for?," Joey screeched.

"I, I, I, I... ," Before I could say another word, David was close behind Joey and running at full charge.

David had lost some time getting across that dam, but he was making it up quickly. He had passed the cousins and was out for revenge on Joey. Joey turned with surprise toward my charging brother and dropped the knife. David saw the situation; bounded right at Joey, and leveled him with a running punch to the stomach that rolled him around my brother's arm like a pinwheel. Joey dropped to the ground.

"You want a piece of me, Burba?," David yelled.

Joey's cousins, now close behind, screamed, ran up to us, and grabbed Joey by the shoulders to help him up. I met my brother, who backed off after the first blow. Joey was crying and all three of the Burbas stumbled back home, never to return to the woods again.

Mason was still back at the fort, and David and Mason had both taken hit from rocks. David was soaking wet. We regrouped and cleaned up. Mason was okay and so was David. He only knocked the wind out of Joey and scared him a little. We defended what we thought was ours, and we were back at home before lunch.

There were a few other confrontations with the Burbas while growing up, but never another one in those woods. The story of the bothers' struggle gained us a reputation of respect. No-one ever challenged all three of us again or went back to the forest without our escort. The fort, the woods, and the rest of our turf were safe.

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