It was well that the plans of Blue Moccasin required time, for the mind of Young Warrior seethed with the words of Friend Seeker.
Long had his teacher spoken of clear-minded battle, of thinking many steps ahead of his enemy, of allowing his mind to see and to know what would appear. Now it seemed there was another danger to be recognized and understood.
Increasingly often since the Cherokee fight he had taken time to speak to The Great Spirit. Unlike Late Star, who retreated to a special place and utilized many important symbols, Young Warrior simply paused and cast his eyes outward allowing his thoughts to flow forth for The Sky Father's notice. To this time he had received no answers, but upon occasion he had felt a presence almost touching him, as though still undecided to make itself known. It was gone almost as he noticed, but The Spirit was there. He was sure of it.
To The Great Spirit he would turn for strength to conquer the black rages. If he was a son of The Great Spirit, as was often hinted, he might someday be heard or recognized. He resolved that at each sun he would speak, seeking help and strength to do all that was expected of him.
The thoughts replaced the doubts, and he was enthused by the new challenge of speaking daily with The Great One. Beneath such guidance he could grow, and if rages sought him, he would know that they too were part of The Sky Father's plan and he would use them with care and respect.
In the true dark when the hunters had come in and bellies were filled, the fire of Late Star was built high to draw attention, and Blue Moccasin paced among the lodges with his fingers on a small drum.
The people came quickly, anxious to hear the news and excited by the break of routines. Men seated themselves, ringing the fire and speaking of matters while the women chattered behind them. Children were not heard at fire circles and though some sat silently watching, most chased their games distant enough that their occasional shrieks did not interfere.
As usual, Late Star lounged in his seat and the circle unconsciously adjusted so that he became the focus of eyes. In council, the thoughts of Late Star carried weight and the message speaker would know to position himself there.
When Blue Moccasin stepped into the circle he held high the forked stick of the message carrier, and he stood proudly tall with a certainty beyond his years. Men smiled inwardly at the boy's young pride, but they also recognized that he was specially marked and that his storytelling already surpassed most to whom they listened.
Any fool could announce anything and be done with it, but to give rich meaning and to breathe life into its moments so that all believed it memorable, there lay the skills practiced by Blue Moccasin, the message carrier.
Among the people of his white half there was writing, and words of great power were rarely spoken. But here, among his red brothers, there was only the voice and a few pictures drawn on leather and tree trunks, or woven in shells and beads. Here, the people understood the hints of nuance and their emotions could be plucked like bowstrings or lifted and lowered like fingerings on a flute. All that the people knew was told in speech and song. All news traveled by voice alone and all thought lived or died as the thinkers chose to repeat or to discard it. The message carrier was the voice of his people. His way was made safe through even distant nations and his ability to bring alive the thoughts he carried marked him as one to be chosen for other messages.
Blue Moccasin placed his forked stick aside, laying it gently, recognizing its power to draw listeners and grant safe travel.
Only half facing his audience, his body seemed to curl in upon itself as though gathering its force before acting. The lithe body uncoiled, and the blue eyes brightened with spirit and even the first words of Blue Moccasin tingled the souls of the villagers.
"It is said that The Great Spirit chose the body of a Seneca woman to bear a special son. It is said that this happened here, among our valleys and along our greater river." As a listener, Young Warrior felt his heart thunder, for the story had never before been spoken so boldly for all to hear, but Blue Moccasin continued.
"Who first said these things? We cannot remember, for they seem to have always been, as though . . ." The voice hesitated in suggestive suspense . . . "our Sky Father himself had made it part of all that we know."
Friend Seeker's gaze met flatly with Late Star's, whose lip quirked only a little as he again concentrated on the words of Blue Moccasin.
The speaker's words hinted of secret things as they told of Small Warrior's acceptance and training by the seer Late Star and the warrior Friend Seeker. They sang of special skills and accomplishments until Small Warrior became Young Warrior, and listeners' eyes turned regularly to the powerful figure who sat implacable as stone—without betrayal of the thrills that coursed him at the bright telling of his own story. Across the circle, Pond Lily listened, open-mouthed with widened eyes, unsuspecting her own part in what was to come.
By the time Blue Moccasin reached the Cherokee battle even Friend Seeker found himself caught in the telling. Like sharpened flints the words of Blue Moccasin detailed the surging fights and Young Warrior's darting attacks that almost alone broke the will of their enemies and sent them fleeing in terror. The listeners expected such dramatic exaggerations for they gave life to a story. Only the teachers knew that the interpretation of Blue Moccasin was not as distorted as it seemed, and they said nothing.
When it was right, Blue Moccasin dwelt on the loneliness of the warrior's path and Young Warrior's willingness to walk it. He spoke of the future when even Friend Seeker would leave the path and Young Warrior would stride it alone, but even the finest of storytelling must reach a climax and Blue Moccasin did not stretch the interest of his listeners.
"And so, he who will be called The Warrior, he who will be known throughout the nations, he who will know a thousand coups and a thousand other victories, this day places gifts before the maiden he chooses to warm his robes, possess his heart, and share his Journey."
Young Warrior watched only the face of Pond Lily. At Blue Moccasin's words he saw her startled surprise, followed by a terrible fear that caused her to clutch at a lodge pole for support. Her agony was so apparent that Young Warrior wished Blue to hasten his words. The doubts that assailed her swept through his own mind. That it must certainly be another, for he had given her no signal, turned her eyes blind and almost hopelessly she hung waiting for the blow of Blue Moccasin's words.
The moment demanded embellishment and Blue spoke of Young Warrior's appreciation for the most comely and for the brightest laughter. How Pond Lily suffered, for her body was strongly solid and her laughter was soft and personal. And still the speaker continued, as other maidens wondered and parents speculated,
"But the woman of a warrior must be more than lodge keeper, She must be a healer of wounds and one who can suffer the many absences without fear or loneliness.
"Who then above all other maidens will grace the lodge of Young Warrior? Who will grind the corn and bear the children? Who will bind the wounds and apply the paintings of war to Young Warrior? His eyes swept the audience before continuing, but in her anguish Pond Lily could not see them settle for a longer instant upon her.
"Far the Young Warrior searched and many were the choices. Among his mother's people waited maidens of good heart and even among the Chit-Chit on the Cisna Run there were others.
"Finally, he looked closer and there, within his very circle, was the one who woke his spirit, one who gave both fire to his soul and peace to his heart." Did the sweet mouth of Pond Lily round in rejuvenated hope? "Young Warrior has chosen and to her he offers all that he has and all that he will become."
The suspense tore at even those who knew, and Late Star, both wise and cynical recognized the youth's ability to hold his listeners as easily as he clutched a brook stone.
Blue Moccasin placed a hand upon his breast and held the other forth as though in pleading. Slowly it passed across the waiting village and his voice merged with its movement until it paused, pointing only to the stricken Pond Lily
, clutching desperately at her lodge pole.
"To Pond Lily alone, I speak the words for Young Warrior."
His voice became as soft as a lover's but the meaning in them passed as rays of sunlight through the breast of Pond Lily, and the happiness flooding her changed cheeks to blooms and her eyes to tear-flooded joy.
"If the maiden, Pond Lily, will accept the gifts of Young Warrior she will be forever first in his lodge. Her mother's words will be heeded and her father's thoughts will be honored. Her children will be many and her place will be secure."
Distantly, Pond Lily heard the approving slaps on thighs and soft hoots of satisfaction. She could have seen envy as well as acceptance, but the tears of thanksgiving allowed only the stern features and shaven scalp of Young Warrior.
For Pond Lily, no more was needed.
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Chapter 12: Age 19
It seemed to Young Warrior that Friend Seeker should be harsher. The Shawnee boys were a good example.
The Shawnee had plagued villages along the Juniata. They had emptied snares for their own use and helped themselves to canoes at will. Five in number, they had stolen from the fields and relieved more than one lone hunter of his game.
Because they moved almost daily, their depredations caused only grumblings and threats, leaving vengeance to the next victim. The Shawnee had been abroad a full moon when the Seeker decided it was enough and went after them.
The youths wandered randomly and a few suns were required to locate their most recent interferences. Two more days of narrowing the search found their night camp within a vast windfall of downed timber on the north slope of Tuscarora Mountain. Young Warrior was irritated that the hunt had taken them beyond the Warrior's Marks only to circle almost to their starting point, but Friend Seeker saw it differently.
"Such a thing can be seen two ways, Young Warrior. One can choose, as you have, to be angry, or one could believe himself fortunate that the Shawnee came this way, for now our return will be short. Would you be more pleased if our quarry had gone west and you now stood many days from your lodge? Give thought to that, lest you grow a line between your eyes."
The criticism did not lighten Young Warrior's spirit, and when a Shawnee left the fire circle he closed a hand tightly around the youth's throat and shook him violently into silent submission. Then he followed Friend Seeker into the firelight, helping his captive with a fist wound tightly into his hair.
Though the Seeker showed no weapons, his features set in displeasure and the sight of their companion painfully twisted within the grasp of a stone-faced giant shook the Shawnees like a winter's chill.
The shock of two warriors appearing at their fire was rapidly replaced by dire trepidation and the fun of the warm summer was a burden that became suddenly serious. A short heave sent the captive sprawling awkwardly among his friends who sat as though rooted, and Young Warrior coldly surveyed the hand of villains.
They were young men of his own age who should have been at hunting or lodge raising, but their type appeared in every village. From parents of little discipline, they grew as weeds, ignoring order and avoiding responsibility. Attracted to each other but restrained within their own village, they had wandered away and existed through petty thefts perpetrated on those they encountered. In the eyes of Young Warrior they were worthless and would forever remain so.
Friend Seeker ordered the Shawnee together where a single log pinned them within the fire glow. His voice brooked no resistance and behind him loomed the glittering-eyed giant who appeared ready to grind them like corn kernels. Their only sound was the hoarse voice clearings of their dazed companion whose throat had been nearly closed.
"Place all of your weapons in a pile before you." There were no protestations of innocence and the motley collection of stone equipment was embarrassingly crude. In a pair of strides Young Warrior reached the pile and kicked it into the fire pit where the wooden handles quickly caught. The repressed savagery of his movements terrorized the Shawnee and awareness that only the presence of the older warrior spared them immediate harm kept their thoughts cooperative.
For long moments, Friend Seeker watched the handles burn. Tension built within the youths as they avoided the eyes of the huge Iroquois and awaited the words of the Delaware.
"You have roused the anger of the Iroquois people." The words hollowed their guts, for they had seen themselves as minor irritants, beneath important notice. To imagine the power of the Iroquois descending upon them was to see death's approach. Was that the reason for the younger warrior's presence? Was he a killer assigned to them?
The Seeker continued, "Your acts have insulted the Iroquois people and for these acts you will pay." He seemed to study them, as though choosing which horrible punishment best fitted.
"Because you are young, your lives may be spared." Did the giant shift in disagreement?
"Because you have shamed your people as you have annoyed those of the Iroquois, you will name your village and you will be marked so that word will reach them and they will know.
"Stand and remove all but your moccasins." Unresisting, the Shawnee complied, hunching awkwardly naked without pride or courage. Young Warrior's disdain for them leaped.
Drawing his knife, Friend Seeker approached the first and with a quick slice split the youth's ear. The howl of pained surprise embarrassed them all and the remaining four submitted with no more than subdued whimpers.
Coldly, The Seeker viewed his punishment. Then he spoke again. "Return now to your people. Travel swiftly while your strength remains. Hunt no game and speak to no one until you have passed beyond the lands of the Iroquois.
"Do not come this way again." His gesture started them, and they fled into the darkness holding their blood flowing ears and desiring only to be far away.
Young Warrior followed the Shawnee to be sure of their intent, but they traveled swiftly, groaning among themselves and pausing only to bathe their wounds and pin the flapping pieces together with long thorns.
He returned to the fire where Friend Seeker waited, watching the last of the Shawnee garments turn to ashes.
Young Warrior dropped beside his teacher, his disgruntlement plain. "They deserved more, Friend Seeker."
"It is true, Young Warrior, but they did not deserve death."
"Their bones should have been broken at least."
The Seeker sighed, "Perhaps, my nephew, but what more would have been accomplished? A notched ear long seen will discourage others better than a healed arm bone. It will also remind its wearer to act differently. Their return to their people will embarrass them. Crippled, they might gain sympathy, but a sliced ear creates only disdain."
"They are woods rats and worth nothing!"
"True, and a rat remains a rat no matter what is done to it. So it will be with these worthless ones. Let them be a problem of the Shawnee; our task is finished."
Though he spoke no objections, Young Warrior wished they had exacted greater anguish. Intrusion into the lands they protected should cost the interlopers greatly.
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Chapter 13: Age 21
Kenoma of the Tuscarora was going home. His heart longed for the sweeter warmth of the old lands. He could smell the swamps with their musk of skunk, snake, and small furred animals. There, the rivers ran slower and the pine forests grew in earth without the clay and rocks of Iroquois country.
The Iroquois themselves had turned all things sour. That the noble Tuscarora had been forced to beg acceptance within the Iroquois Confederacy galled the soul of Kenoma, and the aloof arrogance of the Iroquois continually rankled his spirit. At council, the Tuscarora were rarely heard; in trading, they accepted the leavings; and in the small battles fought along the borders, he, Kenoma, had been regularly slighted and denied places of honor.
There were no barriers to his return to the south. Families still traveled regularly along the great Tuscarora path and message carriers trotted between the few who had chosen to remain in the south and the many w
ho were now one with the Iroquois. Without interference, the lodge of Kenoma could be gone in a day.
Before the leaders had chosen the Iroquois way, the voice of Kenoma had been strong in council. As a fighter, his thoughts had carried weight, for then the Tuscarora had been at war with neighbors and whites had crowded their flat lands. Within the Iroquois Nations there was security, and the whoops of border raiders rarely disturbed council reasonings. When Kenoma spoke of the wars and fighting dear to his spirit, only courtesy heard him out, and the subject quickly changed. Kenoma remembered the slights and gathered kindred spirits to nurture ill will and plan suitable repayment.
The supporters of Kenoma numbered seven. Their lodges huddled together and their fire circle savored the constant complaining that magnified slights and soured spirits until nothing seemed good and their livers ground with discontent.
It became clear to Kenoma that merely leaving was not enough. The insults demanded vengeance and the name of Kenoma must somehow be burned into Iroquois memory. He delayed departure until a plan firmed and he knew best how to wound the pride of the Iroquois. Then he sent the lodges south, to travel quickly and disappear within the distant Cherokee lands where even the Iroquois could not reach.
With his band of seven men he camped and waited to be sure their lodges were beyond catching. In that camp he told his plan to humiliate the people who had slighted them.
The seven listened and agreed that Kenoma's blow would be remembered. They saw no particular danger to themselves and so accepted the plan and prepared for swift travel.
The Iroquois counted few material things sacred to their confederacy, but high among those few was a belt of wampum made of strung beads laboriously shaped from shells. The ancient wampum depicted the joining of the tribes of the Iroquois with the central Onondaga shown as a pine tree. The wampum was rolled within doeskin and stored in the lodge of the Onondaga Sachem. On ceremonial occasions it might be displayed as a reminder of the strength achieved through unity. The wampum was not guarded, and Kenoma intended to steal it and leave in its place a ringing insult to the confederacy that had ignored him.
The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 10
