The hands of The Warrior paused as though his thoughts hesitated, and when he again began he used both hands and voice as though words were needed to prove his sincerity.
"If the words of The Warrior are wrong for this council, The Warrior will leave the fire circle for these two things will be true: if the messenger's stick is not honored, then honor is weak at this council; if this council is without honor, The Warrior will not meet with it, for he seeks closeness with The Great Spirit, known to some as Mishementoc, to others as The Manitou, and to still others as Wankentanka. It is known that The Sky Father holds honor above all things. So too does The Warrior.
"Bent Rider's horse will not be replaced and Bent Rider should give thanks to the old ones that he does not lay beside his animal."
To follow The Warrior's hands, the eyes of Blackhawk had to look away, but The Warrior's firm gaze had never faltered. When he was finished, with hands at rest, Blackhawk did not again meet his gaze but shifted a little to stare almost blindly into the fire. Patiently the council deferred to the Hawk, who seemed bemused by the flames and was slow to answer.
He began finally with a sigh and relaxed from the erect sitting to allow his mighty shoulders to slump and to drape forearms as large as war clubs across his knees. He again fixed his eyes on those of The Warrior and began to speak softly with hand motions to match.
"Long has the Blackhawk been from his own people. Since those distant suns, his way has been one of thickets and thorns. Wide have been the lands, steep the mountains, and trackless the forests. Many are the tribes seen by the Blackhawk and almost as many have been the names of The Great Father.
"The words of The Warrior are words of truth. Though villages war and warriors fight to the death, message carriers pass without danger. When this has not been so, others turned on the offenders and swept them away. This I have seen.
"Bent Rider should know this truth as should his companions. Where Bent Rider could have brought honor to his name he allowed arrogance to rule. Where his companions could have placed their spirits before his, they were slow to act. But the moment is lost, and The Warrior has said all that is needed. We need speak of it no more."
The council nodded and gestured approval. It was not The Warrior's place to judge and he remained waiting.
As if to conclude that discussion, the pipe passed through the circle and chips again raised the fire. A gourd appeared, but The Warrior noted that, unlike the others Blackhawk barely touched it to his lips. The Warrior followed his example. The drink had a mealy flavor that stung the nose and palate. He suspected that it could also quickly confuse thinking, and he respected the Hawk's wariness.
Idle chatter ceased when Blackhawk again made ready to speak, and as before, although he spoke to all his eyes remained on The Warrior.
"Before a winter's end, to this village came the Blackhawk." Men nodded in memory. "Here he was treated with honor, and here his robes lie among those of friends." Almost laboriously, Blackhawk spoke each name and included some of the younger whose stature did not allow a place in the circle.
"Now to this village comes The Warrior, and to Blackhawk there is strangeness—as though The Sky Father opened his hand to this place." His iron gaze drove deeply into the eyes of The Warrior.
"Blackhawk has known many battles." He stroked his scarred chest, "And it is clear that The Warrior too has earned his name." The Warrior's scarred body burned as Blackhawk's eyes raked him.
"The Blackhawk knows the thoughts of The Warrior as he knows no other's. He sees through The Warrior's eyes and touches with The Warrior's fingers. This is new to Blackhawk.
"Blackhawk sees that our bodies are as one, and he wonders if Wankentanka has made us brothers?"
Blackhawk's words were a question, and The Warrior weighed them before answering. This time he chose to speak and sign in the less formal first person, and it was noted.
"Long have I followed the ways of a warrior. On that path, too, lay many thorns. Since the teacher Friend Seeker joined The Great Spirit, the trail has been lonely and none have touched the heart of The Warrior.
"Blackhawk sees that our bodies are as one. Yet, if I bleed will the Blackhawk feel it?" With a slight twist The Warrior exposed a razored tomahawk edge and without change of expression drew his forearm across it so that blood welled.
Ignoring the cut he continued, "So it is shown that we are not one in body, but may we be one in spirit? I too feel the hand of The Sky Father at this fire. Has Blackhawk killed as I have killed? Does he place his honor first? Does he seek fierce challenges and hunger for signs from The Great Father as does the spirit of The Warrior? Many of the answers appear in my thoughts and they are good.
"Clearly Blackhawk is not of this place. His skin is as no other known to The Warrior. The Great Spirit has planned it, or our paths would not have joined. Surely then, there is meaning in our meeting."
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The Warrior was awed by the Blackhawk. It was not that he could not match the Hawk move for move but more that Blackhawk enabled him for the first time to see how overwhelmingly he himself surpassed others. Except for skin color, he was the Hawk. Their thoughts paralleled and their insights were as one. Did similar training and experiences determine that men would become the same? Neither believed it, for they had seen no others that approached them. They sought deeper meaning to their meeting.
Together they hunted the buffalo, first on foot and then mounted, as Blackhawk taught his friend horsemanship. They stalked the antelope and ran with inexhaustible abandon that enthralled villagers. Some spoke of Blackhawk as The Warrior's shadow, but others saw the Hawk as his friend's leader.
Gently they explored the other's abilities, each careful to draw back if he gained advantage. Each avoiding the hint of competitiveness that could wound, each carefully strengthening the bonds of friendship.
Words grew swiftly between them. Their language became their own as they adopted bits of many languages to replace the hand talk. From the Hawk came favored words of his distant youth. Words from the Cherokee, and especially the Delaware and Shawnee, were offered by The Warrior. In time it was possible to speak in ideas and say with satisfaction thoughts that sought release. Then, to his friend, Blackhawk told his story; one known only to himself; one that he had expected to keep forever locked within.
"The land of my people is strong in all ways. There, a sun burns the land and animals grow large and dangerous.
"In that land all men are black. Some have skins that shine as though oiled, some have faces that are flattened as though struck against rock, and it has even been said that in a great woods live tribes of men that grow no taller than children—but I have not seen this.
"There I became a young warrior. With my spear I killed a lion, and to honor it my body was scarred by the women of my family.
"Our chief ruled kraals beyond counting and claimed countless wives and lands from sun to sun. To him came brown men with treasures of metal, and our great chief gave many of his people to the brown men in exchange for the treasures.
"We who were chosen were warned by our chief that we now belonged to the brown men and to cause no trouble on his land. Thereafter, he did not care. Our spears taken and our shields left behind, we marched to the west for many suns. Daily we talked, wondering when we would be beyond the lands of our chief and free to kill the brown men and return to our kraals, but before that time, we were bound and tied in long columns with other black men from strange lands put to guard us. Still many broke free, but most were recaptured because the land was not ours and the guards knew the short ways.
"In time, white men appeared and traded other things to the brown men, and we were told that the whites now owned us. Our bonds became chains of iron and escape could not succeed.
"We were placed in the belly of a canoe so large that it could hold a tribe. Like animals we lay in our own filth while many died and the stench and wailing numbed us all. Across the sea the great canoe traveled, and we knew we wo
uld see our lands no more.
"Among the whites we were slaves and lived without hope. Most surrendered to their masters. Those who did not were punished and carefully watched.
"All were given new names." The Blackhawk smiled coldly. "I was called Ben and driven into forests to clear land for planting. The work was not for a warrior, and I resisted. The punishment brought me close to death, but from it I chose a wiser course and, unlike most, I began a long wait while I learned and prepared."
Though the story was long, The Warrior listened raptly. Blackhawk spoke of worlds unsuspected and struggles unimagined. That Blackhawk lived to tell of it foretold a powerful ending, and The Warrior waited with anticipation.
"To the east rolled the sea and along it the whites were thickest. To the west, it was said, lay mountains filled with terrible beasts, and beyond a spirit land and finally—the edge of the earth."
The Hawk shrugged in resignation, "To follow the sun did not sound wise, but to be caught would be to die and only to the west could the whites be outdistanced.
"As the whites had horses and dogs for the chase, I would run more than I would walk. I stored corn and many pairs of moccasins for my escape. When I was ready, I seized the most hated white and broke his back across my knee. Then I ran to the west. I ran without haste and used streams when I could. For more than a day I heard no pursuit, but when it came, horses seemed on every trail and men and dogs shouted and bayed.
"Perhaps the moccasins saved me, for I had rubbed them with animal oils and the dogs did not find my scent. For three days I ran without sleep. Then I rested a full light in mud below a river island before running without long rest for two more sun turnings. I moved only at night and stepped on no trails. The forests gave food, and I needed nothing more.
"Beyond the great river where the plains begin, I joined people of your color. Long now have I lived among them, moving as I wished with word of my coming often going before.
"As The Blackhawk I have hunted and fought for the people where my robes lay. Blackhawk has been honored and he has taken women to his lodge, but always he has stood out as an eagle among pigeons.
"My horses must be larger, my bow stronger, and my arrows longer. I have hungered for my own people who could stand as I stand and whose strengths might match my own.
"Now comes The Warrior who stands as I stand, whose arm is as mine, and whose bow is as thick as the Blackhawk's.
"No longer must the Hawk know that only he can lift the log or run with the elk.
"Finally there is one for the Hawk to know as an equal—and as a friend. It is as a cool breeze in summer or a warm lodge when the earth is cold. No longer is the Blackhawk alone and he thanks the gods of his people and The Great Spirit of his red brothers for the end of it."
The Warrior was silent long after the Hawk had finished. He too knew the loneliness. To be a warrior was to experience it; the skills separated him from others. To be twice the strength and quickness and to tower above all marked him different and made most uneasy and unsure.
He tried to imagine a land where all men were as he and the Hawk. How mighty in battle they would be. Were their women also large and of special strengths? He would ask his friend Blackhawk that and many other things.
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Chapter 21 Age 39
There was a restlessness within Blackhawk that made him move often. The Hawk had entered the mountains that rose to the west. He had turned south and crossed an even vaster plain. He had not gone north among the Sioux. The Sioux were inhospitable, and it was said that the further into their lands the more prickly the tribes became. The Sioux warred continually with another fierce nation called the Crows, and beyond the Crows dwelt the most ferocious and unapproachable of all, the Piegans, known also as the Blackfoot.
As Blackhawk had not encountered signs of The Great Spirit in his travels, it seemed to The Warrior that he should look to the north. When he proposed it, Hawk grumbled and rolled his eyes. He repeated the stories of Sioux that marked victims by cutting off an arm and another clan often called the Cutthroats. He doubted that The Great Spirit lived among such people.
They rode to the Sioux trailing a horse lightly burdened with their few possessions. They sang old songs of the Delaware and Iroquois and roared the powerful beat of Blackhawk's marching chants. The Warrior held his forked stick ready, and at night they built large fires so that none could believe they came in stealth. Again the empty land rolled forever and it was long before they found the Sioux.
The Sioux were as were all people. To strangers they showed stern faces and fingered weapons. Their spirits offered challenge, but once past the initial ferocity they welcomed news of distant places or strange happenings. The appearance of two giants, one of black skin, sped before the travelers. By moving slowly, sight of their approach brought riders with bright smiles and hard riding young boys to cavort their horses and demonstrate their skills and courage.
The travelers joined men on their hunts, and the bows that none others could draw drove deadly arrows. They sat in council and reasoned with elders about important matters and told how some were handled by other nations.
Though they remained serious in demeanor and actions, on one memorable occasion The Warrior wrestled playfully with a young boy while bathing. The child's brother came to help and then a third youth. Easily The Warrior threw them about and with shrill yips more appeared.
Smiling widely, Blackhawk came to his friend's assistance and was almost hidden beneath wet and squirming bodies trying for a handhold. Back-to-back, the two warriors defended themselves while squaws and men lined the bank, clutching and pointing, bright with laughter.
From the seething mass, boys were hurled like stones, to strike the water in awkward sprawls only to surface with warlike shrieks and mix again within the thrashing tangle.
Eventually the warriors fought their way to the bank, surrendering the creek to the youthful horde. Amid the panting and laughter, The Warrior claimed earning at least three eagle feathers, and The Hawk gasping, hands on knees, insisted he had counted at least a lifetime of coups. This story too was carried ahead and raised smiles even among haughty warriors.
Yet they moved on and in winter sheltered in friendship among the Piegan. Behind them, the Crows had proven little different from the hated Sioux. And the Piegan, feared for their intractability, were much the same. If decoration and some courtesies varied, they too smoked to The Manitou and worried over the routes of the essential game herds.
The Piegan had men of great thought and the travelers studied their reasonings and gave their own. Blackhawk summed their conclusions in privacy, speaking their special language that mixed many languages and would not be understood.
"Clearly, oh Warrior, all people seek the same. All desire peace and all incite war with their neighbors while blaming every enemy for wounds so old none living remember them. Each tribe believes itself specially marked by The Sky Father, and each is certain it appeared magically; one rose from a sacred lake, another was dropped on an equally sacred mountain. All believe themselves uncle to the bear, and each has an animal sacred to them. In the mountains the elk is close to the gods. On the plains, the buffalo is even closer."
"It was so among my people, oh Hawk, although there the deer was most important and many thought the Delaware special children of The Sky Father."
"The black tribes of my youth were the same in these things, my friend. The lion was greatest and gods lived in many things. There too the medicine men danced. I remember little difference."
The Warrior changed the thoughts only a little. "If all are the same, perhaps The Great Spirit will not be found among any?"
Hawk shifted uneasily. "All know The Spirit is there." He peered upward where sky could be seen through their tepee's opened smoke hole. "His hand, if he is one, is on all things. Yet none see him, and only a few have heard him. I do not think he can be found, oh Warrior."
"He may rest beyond the mountains. In the spring we wil
l search there."
Gazing moodily into the fire, The Hawk offered no objections.
"The whites also pray mightily for blessings by their gods, but although their guns give them power, they are not greatly different. They too fight and accuse each other without end."
The Warrior's brows creased, "When he is seen, will The Sky Father be the color of my people, or as black as yours? Could he be without color, like the fish-belly whites?"
The Hawk's teeth gleamed in the firelight. "Perhaps The Great God will be a woman." His laughter was deep. "Or is he an eagle or an elephant? Ah, the elephant. Have I told you of elephants, oh Warrior? This you must know, for surely the elephant is closer to god than you or I."
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In another year, they tasted the salt of a sea that stretched forever west and they could go no further.
They wandered south into a warm land where whites raised cattle and wore pointed hats with wide brims. From hiding they saw white riders shoot their uncle, the great golden bear, and ride away without taking even the hide. They avoided meeting the whites, for Blackhawk swore whites were without honor and would chain them for work until they died. When he spoke of it he unconsciously rubbed the scars of wrist and ankle where such chains had left their marks.
The seasons blended with the mountains crossed and the deserts passed. Each dawning The Warrior rose to stretch and stress the sinews of his body, and despite regular grumbling, the Hawk joined him until sweat ran free. Often the people with whom they lodged watched and shook braids at the strangeness of such actions. When they moved on the antics were quickly forgotten and no clever youths found the good of them.
It was a dreamlike time without direction and its ending began with the Blackhawk's bad dreaming.
"For two nights ravens have flown in my sleep, my brother." He scowled fiercely. "Some would believe they warned of death." He jumped to his feet and paced irritably. "Let us be gone from this place where sleep gives no rest."
The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 20
