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On his fourth day of leisurely return from the council of the Huron, Blue Moccasin built his fire at a place where The Warrior had found him before. It was a sheltered camp where eyes were not likely to see, and just as the dark rolled upon them, The Warrior came.
This time Blue Moccasin heard him for he made no attempt at quiet. His great frame appeared gaunted, and there was weariness in the set of shoulders. A thick layer of pine pitch protected the chest wound, and seen clearly for the first time Blue marveled that even The Warrior had not fallen from it.
"It is safe, Blue Moccasin. None follow to discover our secrets." The Warrior sat loosely, allowing his back to rest against a tree. His arms lay lax as though exhausted and even the long muscled legs appeared heavy and unresponsive.
Quickly, Blue offered hot meat that The Warrior chewed with an obvious satisfaction. From the spring he brought water in a bark cup and The Warrior sipped with vast contentment. Clearly even his abilities had been stretched, and Blue Moccasin reluctantly held his questions for a better time.
For the night, they moved far from the fire where none could find them. The Warrior slept deeply wrapped in the message carrier's robes while Blue dozed and nodded keeping a casual watch against even the unlikeliest chance of discovery.
By the second day, The Warrior seemed much as before. He had washed thoroughly in a fast moving stream and whipped his body dry in a sun warmer than most had been.
Without paint, he seemed only a little less fearsome. Hard lines were worn into his features and the bitterness of many combats was graven around eyes too old for their seasons.
The wound was closing nicely and bled only when The Warrior tore away the pitch protection. He held an herb poultice against it while they talked, but later applied new pitch which better held the lips of the gash together while moving.
"When the chiefs sent their runners I knew your arrival would be soon, Blue Moccasin. I waited a sun, locating the sleeping places of dogs. Then, during the dark, I slipped between them and into the heart of the village. There I hid within a sweat lodge close enough to hear the drum of Blue Moccasin when it signaled."
The words were simple, but Blue Moccasin could appreciate the risks. To slip between sleeping dogs? An unexpected shift of wind, or . . . a dozen other things could have roused them. But The Warrior continued.
"No listeners loitered outside the council, but squaws passed frequently and I expected to be seen leaving the sweat lodge. Yet at your drum's signal I stepped quickly forth and empty lay all I could see. Kind was our Sky Father."
"And astonished were all at the council, oh Warrior. At best I expected loud calling as you entered the village, but when you appeared almost instantly at the entrance, I also could not believe it."
The Warrior almost chuckled, indeed his chest rose and fell though no sound escaped. "It was good that none within chose to hurl a spear, oh Moccasin. Looking into the darkness I was as blind as a mole. Even as I began to speak I could see little, but I do not think they knew." Blue Moccasin knew they had not.
"And so it went. I left the village to the south and circled on used trails where I could not be followed until I was to the north at a concealed place. There I cleaned this coward's wound and waited until it seemed time to find your camp.
They talked on and rested another day before The Warrior slipped away to find his secret way beyond the Huron lands.
Blue Moccasin paused often, visiting villages along his path. At each he told the story of the council, adjusting and polishing. By the time of his telling to the Iroquois chiefs it would be a tale unmatched.
The small chiefs would chew their hearts, but even those undeserving would gain stature from having sent The Warrior on his mission.
Blue Moccasin wondered if he could find a way to whisper his belief of the small chiefs' dishonor into appropriate ears and expected that he could.
That he had known the deception and still faced the Huron would add luster to The Warrior's image, and that would further grind the puny souls of the small chiefs.
Complicated were the maneuverings, but the spirit of Blue Moccasin rose to them. For now, they were far richer than anything offered by his white side.
Forked stick held high, he spoke his way southward into the Iroquois homeland, the land of the powerful Six Nations.
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Chapter 18: Age 35
A light drizzle froze as it fell, making footing uncertain even on forest covered paths. Tree limbs bowed beneath icy burdens and lower growths were flattened until their forms blended into an almost solid ice mass. A sky without sun allowed only dim light, and when wind accompanied the rain it was biting and sifted through the best of garments.
It had been a long trail and little had been resolved. There had been no combat and no coup worth counting. A small and mean group of Shawnee had been overtaken, surrounded and overwhelmed while asleep and made helpless by French rum. The Warrior had looked into the captives' eyes and turned away revolted. Defiance did not rage nor did hatred, nor even desperate hope. Dull with drink, they offered no spark of cunning. He was well into his return before the Iroquois war party gave them quick death.
Weariness of the mind lay upon him as heavily as the ice burdened the trees. He had killed too often to find meaning in new deaths, and he had faced too many combats to find the next distinguishable from the last. Always there appeared new enemies who failed to see lessons already bloodily taught. Often the latest transgressors followed the same schemes to attack the same places, to withdraw by the same known routes. Too often he could foresee their plans and lie in wait, certain of their coming. Too often it was as that done before; to be repeated until life ended?
Recently, even The Great Spirit seemed withdrawn. For seasons he had felt no answers to his prayers for guidance. In war, his hand did not falter, but it seemed as though The Sky Father worked at other tasks, leaving him to choose his own way.
A new thought struck his mind, a thought never before considered, a thought so foreign that it slowed his step and filled his mind with conjecture.
Why? No others do as I have done. Only I seek combats above all things. I have no squaws, no lodge, no possessions beyond those I carry. No sons warm my spirits, no friends follow my steps, no brothers slap my shoulders and make foolish jokes. I am fed and sheltered because I am The Warrior, but most are uneasy and squaws tremble. Even The Sky Father has drawn away.
Why then do I do this? If I am victorious, another enemy will come. If I should be killed, another enemy will still come. Have I not earned enough feathers, touched enough coups, bled from enough wounds to satisfy all of the spirits and bring honor to all of the old uncles?
Doubts seized him like constricting bands and he found he had stopped before crossing a small rivulet. Water still ran but edges were thick with ice and in looking his breath fogged his vision. He had intended to sleep in Aughwick, but ahead lay a small village where he could find shelter. It would be good to feel fire warmth soothe stiffness from his joints and to hear the comforting rustlings of squaws as they prepared hot food.
Tree Shadow, an older hunter beside whom he had scouted lived within the village. He would go to his fire and at ease he would pursue the thoughts that disturbed him. Tree Shadow was a man of surprising wisdom, and his thoughts too could help clear thinking.
Bearing robes and wearing heavy winter clothing he ran like a buffalo, but that too was challenging, and as usual, he seized the clumsiness as something needing improvement. Such running had special rhythms that required care on treacherous footing. He fell into the patterns, letting their repetition dull the doubts plaguing him.
Tree Shadow was recognized as a thoughtful man. He was slower to act than some but, perhaps because of his deliberation, he was more successful than most in many things. When he hunted, he found game, and when he fought his steady calm balanced others' screeching passions. Where The Warrior's unannounced entrance would have startled many into snatching for
weapons, Tree Shadow merely lowered his pipe and raised a hand in greeting. For Tree Shadow, surprise too was best handled without haste.
The Shadow spoke almost as little as did The Warrior, and he kept his silence as his visitor ate without comment the food quickly offered by his squaws and daughters. He had extended his pipe, and The Warrior had taken the single ceremonial puff courtesy demanded. Tree Shadow noticed that the smoke was not drawn beyond the mouth and that it was immediately expelled. Few did not smoke and The Shadow resolved to think on the matter at a convenient time.
This was not the time. In The warrior's presence one thought about The Warrior. His size and hickory hard presence dominated them. Considering it, Tree Shadow saw that it had been so even before Friend Seeker's death, now so long past it was seldom remembered.
How old was The Warrior? His face appeared ageless, cut from stone with severe creases lining it. The eyes? Living coals. How could one judge a flame's life? The body then, hewn in heroic size from seasoned oak, it gave no clues as there were none similar for comparison. Younger than he, for he could remember The Warrior's growth. He decided on thirty-five or perhaps a few seasons younger. Some were already old with those years, their teeth loosened and their limbs shrunken. The Warrior appeared more sturdy than ever. His movements were quick and youthful and the strength of them . . . barely believable. Tree Shadow thought.
The Warrior's paint was old and cracked and he would have his women renew it before his departure. Despite its erectness, the body too was tired . . . who else would have traveled in such foul weather? Even woods spirits sought cover when The Frost Father showed his temper. Probably The Warrior would sleep and continue in the morning. From their times in company, Tree Shadow knew that his unexpected guest might sleep erect by the fire; he had done that often.
He could remember the occasion when The Warrior had returned from some great fighting to ask that he, Tree Shadow, announce his coming to the lodge of E'shan. There The Warrior had given presents and a name to a youth who had made magical arrowpoints of bone. The youth, now known as Quehana, The Arrowmaker, still lived on the Little Buffalo in a lodge of stone and wood. Then, The Warrior had been almost mad in his grief for the loss of Pond Lily, and he slept erect as though by punishing his will and his body he could somehow ease the loss.
Long ago that had been. Now, none met at the fishing place where the Buffalo Creeks entered the Juniata and only old Late Star, Large Fish, and a few others still lived.
The voice of The Warrior jarred Tree Shadow from his reveries, and he listened with care because The Warrior used words sparingly.
"Do you speak with The Great Spirit, Tree Shadow?"
Although surprised by The Warrior's directness. Tree Shadow wove his usual careful course and puffed twice before answering.
"Although I often cast my thoughts to him, he has not answered, oh Warrior."
As though tracing old memories, The Warrior was long in responding. Then his voice was somber.
"Once The Sky Father was swift in making his wishes known to me. His signs were many and his words swam in my thoughts as thickly as running shad.
"But . . . " Idly, his powerful fingers touched a heavy scar long whitened on his chest, "he comes no more, and I fear I have lost him."
Tree Shadow put little stock in answers from The Great Spirit, but he had no intention of disputing The Warrior. If his experience had been that The Sky Fathers were endlessly silent and that those who professed to hear them listened too long to tree rustlings, he would not say so to one who truly believed. One who could with a sweep of an arm send him to join his grandfather.
It was equally clear that there was an order in things, which proved a Sky Father existed. The Warrior was unique. No other approached him, and it had always been said that The Great Spirit had fathered him. Although Tree Shadow again doubted, who could truly know? Tree Shadow chose a safe path.
"The Great Spirit has all things to see over, oh Warrior. Surely he will return."
"I do not feel his presence as I once did."
"Perhaps he is far away, for there are many tribes and he must speak to many."
The Warrior seemed to think on the words, and when he spoke his tones were quizzical and touched with something else.
"Should I then search for him, oh hunter? Where would I look? Can I reach the sky where he is said to lodge?"
Tree Shadow tested the words, feeling for emotion he only suspected, but he could not wait forever in answering and built his thoughts as he spoke.
"Some say great mountains rise in the west until they enter the sky itself. It is there the sun rests in its journey." The Warrior's chin rose and Shadow felt his interest.
"To the east lies the salt sea and The Sky Father would have no interest there. To the north, the earth is frozen. All know that. He would not be there."
He thought for a moment.
"Late Star spoke of a salt sea to the south as well, although the Cherokee live before it. The Great Spirit could be there, for the Cherokee need guidance."
Another thought appeared, so he added it before The Warrior could respond. "But surely, The Great Spirit has been among those nearby even as he has been with our people. If he is no longer here, then he must no longer be there."
Tree Shadow glowed in his own reasoning. The words had been neatly turned and they were clever—even if he did not believe them.
The Warrior was slow in answering but there was interest in his voice. When he spoke, Tree Shadow searched the meanings within the words, and this time 'he believed he found them. The Warrior grasped at the thoughts because they offered change. Did he desire a reason to travel far? Perhaps he tired of his role as protector. Tree Shadow's eyes studied the skein of scars that traced the powerful body and could understand it.
The Warrior said only, "To the west then. There The Great Spirit might again be found?"
Tree Shadow built on the words, offering reasons, if indeed The Warrior sought them. "To the west live many tribes—this we all know. The Great Spirit could be there. What lies beyond the tribes we do not know. Perhaps there are mountains so high that birds cannot pass over them. Perhaps there the hunting ground of The Great Spirit touches the earth and perhaps one can pass between."
Then he tossed the net, and if The Warrior chose he could enter it.
"If my seasons were fewer and I had no lodge to delay me, I would carry the forked stick of the message carrier, and I would search for The Sky Father until I found him or the earth ended. There, oh Warrior, lies a challenge as mighty as any."
The Warrior spoke no more, and in the morning when Tree Shadow opened an eye he was gone. Gone to the west? The Shadow reviewed his words and found them strong. A chill touched him when he wondered if The Great Spirit might not have, for this single time, spoken through him to one he valued more than most.
The Warrior could not tell if Late Star heard. No answer came from the many robes that barely moved with breathing.
"I will follow the sun to where it sleeps, oh Star. Each day I will speak to The Sky Father asking for his sign. Perhaps I can again find him.
"The trail may be long before I see the lodge of my teacher, but the wisdom of Late Star will be with me, and his name will be spoken to those I meet."
The robes rustled and an arm, scrawny with age, crept forth. Lightly as a butterfly it touched the hand of The Warrior and was gone within the coverings. Late Star spoke no words, but kneeling close, Rain nodded The Star's approval, and The warrior accepted their unspoken blessings.
Beyond the lodge's smoky confines the air was crisp with promise of a warming sun. The geese had returned and new growth budded the forest. Women's chatter was light with the pleasures of work in the open, and the hunters were comfortable without the heavy clothes of winter.
Bears had been found, and the snares took small animals so there would be no starving time before squash and corn grew. He had told Turned Ankle of his departure, and no other duties remained.
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nbsp; His possessions were few and easily carried. A single sleeping robe and extra moccasins added weight but he would not hurry. His pouch bulged with odd things that might prove useful and his quiver included hunting arrows. For weapons he carried the great bow of Friend Seeker and the tomahawks that were almost a part of him. The iron knife was more tool than weapon and lay with the hatchets. He took no club or spear; instead he held a fork of willow with a single dyed feather attached to show its meaning. The honored totem would provide as complete protection as would his weapons.
He left Aughwick without ceremony. No companions strode with him nor did eyes or thoughts follow. To most, The Warrior was mystery and his comings and goings were often unremarked. No enemies would approach them; the village lay within his protection and few enemies sought death. Only later some might note that he had been long absent and wonder with whom he fought.
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Chapter 19: Age 36
He had worn the paint of war so long that he felt exposed without it, but he traveled in peace and did not wish to frighten. Without regular plucking and shaving, hair grew beside the war roach, and no longer stiffened, the roach lost its shape and did not offer challenge.
He traveled without haste, sitting late to hear the thoughts of lodge leaders or village men. He quickly learned that it was better to claim only a search for knowledge, for mention of The Great Spirit caused sharp looks and nervous movements.
Each first light he spent in powerful stretchings and challenges to his body. He labored until sweat ran freely and the first tingles of tiredness began. Then he rested and spoke to The Sky Father, seeking signs of his interest. No answers came and he turned westward to search ever further.
Countless seemed the great tribes; clans and villages appeared endless. During the first season his hand talk became skilled, but he used his voice seldom and hungered for a people with whom he could converse.
The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 18
