The Sire Sheaf (The King of Three Bloods Book 1)

by Russ L. Howard

Here and there a familiar chief from past council fires would walk out and sign ‘Honored Friend,’ while holding up their medicine belts with both hands in front. Sur Sceaf signed back ‘Os-Peace.’

  However, there was one camp, under the banner of a Cheyenne Buffalo, where the braves displayed alarm in their faces at the sudden presence of a heavily armed white man in uniform of red surcoat. They handled their tomahawks nervously until their chief signed, ’Stand down. Friend.’

  White Eagle said, “Those are the Cheyenne and Snowmen from the Montan and La Kanada, whom Mendaka has sent for. White men look too much like Pitters and Vardropi for them to feel comfortable around one. It puts them too much at unease.”

  From then on, as Sur Sceaf passed unfamiliar camps of onlookers, he signed ‘Friend,’ and held up the medicine belt.

  A skinny Sharaka youth, around seven winters old, dressed in nothing but a loincloth, rode up to him on his painted pony. “Sur Sceaf of the Hyrwardi,” the youth said in a husky boyish voice, “I am Going Snake, son of Mendaka, and he bids you welcome.”

  Sur Sceaf grinned, “Going Snake, you are the spitting image of your father!”

  The boy puffed up proudly. “Father told me to show you the tent he has prepared for you. He is at the Crater Rim of the Elk Spirit with the king-chief. He said to tell you, that both of them will join you here by the morrow.” Going Snake handed Sur Sceaf a reed-woven basket of cooked squirrel meat and roasted corn to eat while he rode. Never was food so welcome. He tore a piece of meat off in his teeth and savored the moment.

  White Eagle said, “I see, Sur Sceaf, you are now in good hands.” He saluted and said, “Until our trails meet again.”

  “Thank you, White Eagle, for your help.” Sur Sceaf then turned to the black haired lad. “Going Snake, you were only three winters when last I saw you. How are your father and mother faring?”

  “They’re just fine. Mother is fussing over your visit. Father is fine. Is it true you squeezed a bear to death and picked up rattlesnakes without being bitten?”

  “I can see your father has told you many things about us, but such tales grow bigger with the telling.” Sur Sceaf laughed. “We were always the best of friends and have had an eventful life together. You will soon be as tall and strong as him. And how is your older brother, Redelfis? Does he still have his pesky pet coons?”

  “No, Mama gave him a pony to get rid of them. They were damned nuisances. Besides, I’ve now taken to hound hunting. Those coons wouldn’t stand a chance. Redelfis is off hunting at the Woondigo Pass just now.” The good-natured youth raised his hand to halt. “We’re here. That’s your tent there by the aspen grove.”

  Directly ahead stood a newly painted tipi with the runic letters of ‘Surrey’ written over the open door. It had been erected close to the reeds by the lake with a fire already kindled within.

  “Very nice. I shall be most comfortable here.”

  “Our family is in Eloheh, just across the way by that large, twisted spruce. Behind the tipi, you’ll find oats, fodder, and water for your horse which I prepared. Father said I am not to bother you by talking your ears off, so I will be heading home, and we’ll see you in the morning. Our mother has left you a basket of acorn and myrtle seed bread in the tent. Os-Frith!”

  “Os-Frith! Little Brother.” Sur Sceaf dismounted, unsaddled his horse, brushed him down, fed him some oats, and gave him drink from a skin bucket. It was coming on sunset and the air was cooling. Leaving White Fire tied in the small clearing behind his tipi, Sur Sceaf headed for the lake to bathe at sunset under a purple and orange streaked sky. At the edge of the water where the reeds grew in thick peat, he waded out into the water until it was waist deep and sun warmed. After wetting himself, he soaped down, and then took a swim in the warm evening water. He laid his head back and looked up at the purple sky and thought about how nice it would be if he were covered by the lavender cloth of home like the sky he was staring into.

  The shadows lengthened. He felt a sudden sense of eyes looking at him. An acquired awareness told him someone was watching him. He scanned the bulrushes until he spied Mendaho and her girlfriends whispering fiercely on shore behind stalks of snake grass and cattails. He saluted, letting them know he saw them watching him bathe.

  Stepping out of the water, he shook his hair and walked back to his clothing, dripping wet in just his loin cloth draping over his groin, he took his clothes in one hand and his hair claw in the other, and headed up the path toward his assigned tipi. He raised his eye at the maidens and turned to insinuate he wanted privacy while he dried off.

  They left in a hurry, giggling loud enough for him to still hear them for a good hundred feet. He laughed and got a smile on his face remembering how rambunctious and smart Mendaho always was and how embarrassed she’d be when she discovered who he really was. To him she was always a bright and beautiful girl, but to many of the braves she was just too smart and this intimidated them. He marveled that she was still single and unspoken for, but few knew her true worth. He finished drying off, then entered his tipi and began planning for the morrow.

  As he prepared to bed down in the cozy tipi, he looked out the door and noticed a hind moving through the reeds outside his tent. He was totally transfixed by its unusual golden color. The prancing deer was trying to reach some high willow branches. It moved steadily through the tall grass with staccato movements till its ghostly form disappeared into the reeds of the twilight hour.

  He refocused on his preparations, lit a beeswax candle on an upturned clay pot, and fastened his scramasax to his leg, as always. He checked his longbow and quiver full of arrows, laid them next to his bedroll near his broadsword, wave blade, and saddle bags. As he looked upon the wave blade fashioned by the Elf Smith Govannon, he knew it had a destiny still beyond his grasp. When Govannon gifted him the sword he admonished, “The sword will wed its true master in time. Carry it until it weds you or one you shall know to give it to. In any case, the sword will choose, not you.”

  He smiled at Govannon’s words. The wizard was always so full of mystery. He stretched Thunder Horse’s medicine belt alongside the weapons, marvelling at the four colorful serpents radiating from a center point of the Black Sun. He noticed each serpent’s head exited one of the four cardinal points forming what was called the medicine wheel, fanisk, or fire swan among his people. ‘Big medicine,’ he thought. Next he laid his sacred medallion, seer stones, and the pouch on the belt before pulling from his saddle bags a clean wool shirt along with some leather breeches for the morrow.

  He took one final leave of the tipi, to relieve himself by a large twisted pine that had been gnawed on by a beaver just above where his head reached. He scanned the horizon to gain a sense of the magnitude of this gathering. Camps were lit up all around the lake, and the air was filled with powerful balsamic odors mixed with the piney scents of the warming forest. The pine woods creaked as if the forest was talking to him. He thought, If that hind is still there in the morning, I will have fresh venison to offer my host. Over the lake, stars were starting to reflect in its black mirrored surface. In the evening mist the hind peeked out of the dark reeds at him beckoning him to the hunt.

  He threw the flap wide and tied it, leaving it open to catch the balsamic evening air. He thought of his little red headed daughter, her bravery in facing off a bear, and her uniqueness in general. She was a cherished gift from the gods. He was forced to wonder, Would she be like Mendaho someday? Beautiful, powerful-spirited, and yet, alone. Would her calling as a lady knight make her a freak in the eyes of the people?

  After blowing out the candle, Sur Sceaf climbed under his woolen, Saxon green Herewardi cape, with all its embroidered Herewardi silk knots, and laid his head on his bedroll. From a short distance off, the sound of horses and the voices of children passing by in the bulrushes trickled into his ears and drew his heavy eyelids down to rest. He thought, This is my last moment of peace before I give myself, heart and soul, to the commission.

  Chapter
5: The Golden Fawn

  A crystalline morning in spring, Sur Sceaf rode White Fire through a lush, alpine meadow. It was as though he was riding on air. There had never been a time he had ridden this comfortably nor had he ever seen so clearly. Everything was brilliant and luminous, every sense felt heightened. The air sparkled. Choruses of bird song and humming bees filled his ears, sweet smelling blossoms added to the bouquet of senses. Everything was beautiful and inviting.

  Hundreds of shining hawthorn petals fell on his head and shoulders, carried by the softest of caressing breezes. The cushioning grasses smelled sweet under the stallion’s hooves.

  A sudden movement caught his eye. Slowly, a radiant form materialized on the pathway glistening like gold. It was... It was a golden hind. The doe’s startling blue eyes transfixed him. At first Sur Sceaf thought he had surprised her. As he gazed into those eyes, he had the strange sensation she recognized him. She turned her ears toward him expectantly. Is she waiting for me to speak? He beckoned her. She blinked then took a few cautious steps toward him. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, the words formed in his mind.

  “Do not fear my beauty. I will not harm you.” As though she understood, she came confidently down the path without fear. Exultation ran through Sur Sceaf.

  Somehow he knew this golden hind was a gift from the gods. Perhaps it was Mother Freya shape shifting. She was the very bringer of happinessand the harbinger of something more wonderful than he had ever imagined. When she looked into his eyes, it was as though she knew his thoughts, as though there was something she needed him to do.

  He dismounted with his heart pounding and a warm glow engulfing his being. Slowly he moved towards her until he was standing before her. He extended his hand for her to sniff, “May I touch you?”

  In answer she nuzzled his hand, her muzzle as soft as velvet. Gently he stroked her back. The gilded fur had the softness of cashmere with the sheen of mink.

  “You are such a beauty!The most beautiful and magical creature I have ever laid eyes on.”

  “As are you, Swan Lord,”the golden hind’s melodious words drifted through his head.“I have long sought you in this deep wood as you have sought me. Long have our souls entwined and during those times we were parted, I have yearned for you.”

  How can this be? A hind that speaks! He looked more carefully at the doe. She blinked beautiful eyes at him and sighed under his stroking hand.

  “You have been wounded.” Sur Sceaf said. There was blood and the remnant of a broken arrow shaft buried deep in her thigh. “What fool would have wounded such a magical creature? Ah, is that why you have come to me?”

  “Only you, Swan Prince, have the power to remove it,” she answered.

  “Then hold calm whilst I rid you of its poison.” Very gently he worked it free.“There, now you should heal just fine.”

  She looked up at him with gratitude in her eyes. He was transfixed, observing that her eyes were the color found in the deepest of pools in clear water streams. Her hooves were of brass and she bore golden antlers like a stag. A warmth enfolded him.

  “My beauty, you spoke as if to know me. Who are you?”

  “You will know soon enough!”

  “But I must know now.”

  “Patience, Swan Prince, there is a dangerous abyss that we must both cross over before we can come together.”

  The air began to sparkle and glisten in a whirlwind into which the golden hind stepped and in a heartbeat she was gone.

  Sur Sceaf awoke sitting upright. His gaze fastened on the open doorway of the tipi. The path outside his tipi no longer held the brilliance or glory of the world he had just exited. Indeed, it was chilly and dreary, a foggy, drippy, false dawn. He felt smothered by a crushing sense of loss and a keen yearning to return to his night vision. There was no doubt that the dream had been manifested by the blessed Goddess of Love, Freya. What did it mean? What fate have the Wyrd Sisters woven for me?

  He emerged from the warmth of his cape into the chill of the morning. He quickly pulled on his leather breeches weatherproofed with beeswax, slipped into his soft leather boots, and put his woolen shirt on. He placed the seer stones in one pocket and then the gold coin in the other breast pocket of his shirt. Later that day he would be displaying the gold medallion as a token for Onamingo’s examination, so he carefully laced the medicine belt over his own belt so that it hung down his right thigh for clear display.

  After feeding White Fire some grain and refilling his water bucket, he went out to the beaver tree where he unbuttoned his flap to relieve himself. Gazing across the sedges, he saw the flap on Mendaka’s tent was still closed, and no one appeared to be stirring. In a nearby pine thicket a deer grazed shrouded amidst the thick ferns. Excitement filled his bosom. Is it the same deer of my dreams? He peered through the fog dimmed light and decided the deer was very different from the one in his dream. It was disappointing, but at least it was a chance to procure some good venison as a gift to Chief Onamingo.

  He grabbed his longbow, quiver of arrows, strung the bow, and was off to the nodding reeds. The morning mist hung thick about the lake like a mauve veil. He carefully and silently placed each foot as he followed along the dewy path through the fog and wet sedges of the bog. His soft leather boots were silent on the well-trodden peat path. His senses were fully attuned to the hunt. Like the Wose, he assumed the quiet presence of a predator, poised for a kill.

  The path began to narrow with pine saplings up to his shoulders on either side. He heard splashing and moved down the path through a parting of ferns toward the sound. A slight motion of the grasses alerted him something had moved just ahead. He guessed the deer had come to the lake for drink.

  Quietly, he crouched and drew an arrow from the quiver in anticipation of the doe. He nocked the arrow and lifted his bow slowly and silently. He drew back the arrow, aimed at the spot where the ferns were moving, and waited for the hind to come into full view.

  The ferns shook. The prey was drawing near. He braced himself for the shot. The thick ferns parted. An instant before he let the arrow fly, he froze, sucked in air. At the end of his arrow stood a bronze, bare-breasted Sharaka maiden with nothing, but a small doeskin hanging about her curvaceous hips. At the same time she saw him and drew out a bone handled obsidian knife from the sheath on her doeskin. He stood up, relaxed his bowstring, plucked the arrow from the bow, and put it back into his full quiver.

  Clutching the knife, she walked towards him with deliberate steps, her skin glistening with moisture. Her long black hair framed her high cheekbones and the most piercing blue-grey eyes he had ever seen. She was streamlined femininity.

  Her face flashed awkward caution and yet radiant beauty that pierced him to his very core. She stole a glance over at Mendaka’s camp in the near wood, as if that is where she wanted to be. He realized he was the obstacle that impeded her in that intention.

  He gave the hailing sign of a friend, “Os-Frith.”

  Caution turned to modesty as she blushingly draped her breasts with her hair and re-sheathed her knife. “Os-Peace, freedom be with you!” she spoke back.

  He thought her voice similar to the one in his dream.

  “Why was your bow drawn on me, White Man? Are you a simpleton? Do you not realize you’re in camp grounds, where women and children abound?”

  “Forgive me, I thought you were a deer I was stalking, but when you turned around...and I saw...Well... I mean... I realized my mistake. My sincere apologies.”

  She challenged him with a look. “Be glad I only drew my knife and did not throw it. For I thought you were Going Snake’s nasty little hound, ‘Fur Puller.’ The varmint dragged my clothes off. I did not think anyone would be here, or you should not have found me so naked.”

  With great effort, he deliberately kept his gaze focused on her face. “I do not question your modesty.”

  She gave the most beautiful white teethed smile he had ever seen. “You must be the white ambassador there is so much
talk about. Father does not expect you until afternoon. He returned late in the night and is still abed.”

  “I am Sur Sceaf, descendant of Hrus-Syr-Os and son of Syr-Hrus called Sur Spear, high lord and king of the Herewardi.”

  “Always so proud of those bloodlines, you Hyrwardi. You should just say you are Hyrwardi.”

  “And you said you are Sharaka, but I have never seen you here before.”

  “Well, I am Ahyyyokah Taneshewa of the Sharaka from Tahlequah where the Cherokee reside. You may call me Ahy or Taneshewa. Whichever suits your tongue better.”

  The path was too narrow to pass without being close. Shielding her hair-draped breasts with her left arm, she offered her hand to receive the allies-grip of friendship that would seal him a sure friend.

  “Mendaka and I have been blood brothers since boyhood. Are you now of his camp?” Sur Sceaf asked. “Perhaps you are a kinswoman I have not yet met?” He looked into the pools of her eyes and felt drawn way beyond the mere pleasure of seeing a pretty and naked woman. Something more powerful, some eternal bond stirred the Ur Fyr in his heart to a level he had never known. Nor could he remove his gaze from her sylph-like face and those doe-like eyes. Her expressions and dilated pupils led Sur Sceaf to believe she was feeling the same attraction towards him. It was as though they had entered some strange sacred space together.

  “We are guests at Mendaka’s camp, and Father and I are near relatives of his as well,” she declared. “My father has been selected by the Cherokee and Sharaka alike to be the Chief of Chiefs and his name is had for good among all Red Men.”

  Sensing her unease and discomfort from her want for clothing, Sur Sceaf removed the pouches containing his coin and sacred stones, packed them in his pants pocket, then took off his shirt and offered it to her. “Here, wear this.”

  She turned gracefully like a dancer. “Thank you, I’ve heard the Hyrwardi are known for their gallantry towards women,” she said as she slipped into the sleeves of his shirt with the gentleness and art of a stretching swan. Try as he might, he could not help but glance at her firm buttocks and the sensuous curve of her back. After buttoning the last button, she turned and faced him again, a bubbling beauty.