The dreams of Cloud Watcher, the Chippewa, had not been forgotten, and more than one councilor wondered if The Warrior, in his increasing disenchantment might simply kill them and call the nations to serve behind his bloodied hatchets.
When The Warrior joined a council, thoughts were guarded, and the self-imposed inhibitions rankled. A warrior famed among many was chosen to ask The Warrior to stay away.
The fighter of many feathers spoke fairly, and if his fears were large, he disguised them. He reminded The Warrior that he was not a chief and had not been invited. His words were courteous but firm and The Warrior accepted that he believed them. Therefore, he lived.
The fighter was called Two Spears and he had faced enemies, but when his words turned the full attention of The Warrior on him he suffered a fear as primeval as being handed a snake.
From the coldness of the painted head, eyes more deadly than a snake's pinned him. Like an unseen fog, an aura of violence so cruel that he could almost taste it closed around him. For the first time he understood the terrible physical presence that made his own strength puny in comparison, and he knew that he stood like a child before a true warrior. One who could do with him as he chose.
Vaguely, Two Spears realized that although he had seen The Warrior at distance, they had never spoken together. What had seemed a reasonable task given by a person of importance had been, in reality, an invitation to death and, because of it, his life hung in balance.
The words of The Warrior struck like blows for they seethed with a fury barely contained. The mouth of Two Spears dried as his body sweat.
"You speak to The Warrior who has fought as you have not dreamed of fighting." The voice was deep and indignant with suppressed anger.
"The Warrior has seen sights beyond your believing, and he has visited nations beyond your counting.
"The Warrior has sat in council with sachems who could devour those who meet here, and he has been heard by chiefs whose horses are more numerous than our children.
"The Warrior chooses with whom he councils as he chooses with whom he speaks. Because Two Spears is a warrior of feathers and his heart is good, The Warrior has listened. Because the tongue of Two Spears was straight, The Warrior answers in words.
"Now The Warrior returns the message of Two Spears with his own: do not again approach with advice from others, for The Warrior's answer will not again be with words.
"Tell the senders to speak their own thoughts or swallow them forever. Tell them that The Warrior frowns, for he does not like what he hears. Tell them that through the cold season he will sit among the councils as he chooses. Tell them that when the Frost Father loses his strength The Warrior will no longer listen."
The certainty within the words stifled doubts. Two Spears knew, as surely as he lived, that if he decided it proper, The Warrior would rise and tomahawk one or all.
To whom did The Warrior answer? Two Spears could wonder. If chiefs were answerable to him for their actions, whose guidance did he follow? Two Spears knew the answer, and the oft-repeated stories of The Great Spirit's part in The Warrior's birth seemed new and important.
No chiefs rose to challenge The Warrior's place in council. As skilled arbitrators they spoke of innocuous things and made small decisions until he moved on. Like a rock, The Warrior positioned himself, but like water, the words and deeds of council flowed unimpeded around him.
At all of the great councils The Warrior appeared, but there were few differences. Honor was placed behind convenience and greed led all things.
Only a few chiefs stood as those of old, believing that in their honor lay their tribe's. To them, The Warrior flashed respect, but they too decided few things.
It had not always been so and The Warrior pondered the changes. Behind the venal chiefs he saw no surge of courageous young, intent on restoring the ways of their fathers. Therefore, no answers lay in removing those who now connived.
Somehow, traditions had weakened, and leaders had lost direction. Were the whites to blame? Their marks were everywhere. Chiefs vied for white favors of guns, cloth, and kettles. They traded land bought with blood for white money, which purchased more white whiskey, mirrors, or gunpowder. Hunters gave their furs and hides for useless things and some joined whites in their fights with one another. Always the whites crowded closer. Where deer had browsed, cabins now stood, and where whites built lodges, The People were not welcome.
Through the winter The Warrior listened and thought but he found nothing at which to grasp. Words were like air, gone before they could be gripped. No chief preached betrayal, which could have been answered. Instead, they twisted and weakened through a thousand small reasonings until confusion reigned and the easiest way seemed the right way. More land would be sold, special rights granted, and their dependence on white goods increased. Brave sounded the treaties and dignified were the messages carried to the whites, yet each traded away gifts of The Great Spirit in return for trinkets of little value.
The cousins of ice, frost, and snow fled early and returning geese darkened the sky. Each day the sun's power grew and warmth came from the south to clear the forests of their winter blankets and turn the streams into rivers.
The time of decision had arrived and The Warrior met it hungrily. Despite a season of study, he had not found the challenge he believed awaited him. Ahead he saw no mighty deeds bright with honor and courage. So he would turn to the one who had often guided him. The Sky Father would not now turn his back. He was sure, for he had done his best. The Great Spirit would know this and offer a sign to guide him. If he did not . . .? The Warrior knew that he would.
To clean his body and sharpen his mind he began by fasting. On the third day he noticed the first hints of failing strength and began final preparations to seek The Sky Father's sign. He scrubbed his skin clean and had a willing squaw pluck stray hairs from his person lest they offend.
He met the dusk with renewed paint, fresh breechclout, and polished weapons. At the lake's edge a large boulder, weathered to smoothness, rose coldly like the now vanished Juniata standing stone. He mounted it and turned to face the open lake water. Rotting snow still lay in sheltered hollows and the night wind was sharp. Methodically he emptied his mind, avoiding clear thought, allowing his eyes to open or close as they willed.
Motionless, he suffered the moon's slow march, waiting with anticipation the directions he believed would come. Would The Sky Spirit speak in words as he once had or would signs appear to guide him? His mind drifted with the night but no impatience tugged him. This was a time of The Manitou and it could not be hurried.
Strange and confused thoughts touched him and half-forgotten memories passed as though seen through a lodge entrance. He felt again the soft hands of Pond Lily and for an instant saw the son who would have been. Youths that he knew to be Late Star and Friend Seeker passed in intense discussion and his heart smiled at their innocence.
Near dawn his muscles cramped and numbed, but he remained unmoving. His tongue was large in his mouth and his mind blurred with fatigue. Once Friend Seeker had spoken of his own great vision; then the face of Late Star had appeared and he had known that his search for his friend had been graced by The Sky Father. To aid him, the Seeker had smoked potent spirit leaves, but The Warrior did not use them. No smoke would taint his breath or twist his reason. Soon the sign would come. . .
Smaller than a breeze that would not raise dust, awareness lapped at the edges of his mind. Its softness became a painless nibbling that required attention. As he focused upon it a rush of torment enveloped him, surging as an all devouring emotion that sucked at his soul and turned his eyes blind.
Into blackness he stared, unaware of body or being, when a light, tiny as a thorn point, appeared. Swiftly the light blossomed in a race toward him and as it grew he knew it to be a white bird in gliding flight.
Whiter than the snow the bird sped to him and its size grew monstrous until he saw only its vast whiteness and was absorbed within its colorless puri
ty.
He staggered beneath the vision's power and the physical movement shattered the moment's intensity. He woke to a morning's brilliance with sun warming his stronger side. Before him the lake lay gray with winter cold, its horizon curved and unclouded. The world seemed without life, as though The Sky Father had drained it to give force to his vision.
He shook free cramped muscles and sank into squatting, gazing in thought into the lake's grayness. The white bird had represented the white men. The overwhelming strength of the vision made that certain. So, he would go among the whites. What his challenge would be he did not know, but his thoughts would give guidance, for The Sky Father now stood with him.
The whites were many and swarmed in different places. Which should he seek out? His spirit was drawn to those who squatted between the mountains for they ravaged the lands of his youth. Although the sachems had sold the valleys to the whites it might now be proper to win them back. For a moment he recalled the fishing village where the Buffalo Creek joined the Juniata, dwelling again with Friend Seeker, Pond Lily, and the irascible Late Star. Those had been the good days, with deer thick in the forest and lodges filled with cheer. He shrugged his thoughts away. All were gone and the summer lodges with their tumbles of children and chattering squaws would not rise again.
Far closer were the French whites but he felt no wish to test their will or abilities. Between the mountains the sun would already be warm with new life stirring. Perhaps The Great Spirit would reveal more if he were asked at the grave of Friend Seeker. It had happened before and The Warrior knew his decision had been made.
He stretched his body in the familiar manner, allowing the trail to unfold in his mind. It was a long trail but it could serve to sharpen his will and condition him for whatever was to come. His bow and quiver leaned against his lofty perch and he needed nothing more.
Muscles slid, smooth with power beneath battle scarred skin, and his spirit hungered to be away. Feather light, he dropped to the earth and hung the arrow studded quiver across a broad shoulder. The sun warmed his other side and without hesitation he slipped smoothly into a long striding run that effortlessly devoured the rough terrain. He loped into the forest pointing for the land of his beginning many marches to the south.
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Chapter 25: Age 42
The way to the whites was not direct. His help was often requested, and with honor he could not refuse. In the end the delays were worthy for he chanced upon a white captive whose escape from the Shawnee led them both to the mountain Tuscarora. The mountain along which Friend Seeker had died, and he had become The Warrior.
Naked and scrawny, the white captive glared defiance and promised death to his tormentor. Bright was the white's courage as he faced torture and death with a heart of oak. Respect touched The Warrior; the white soured his Shawnee captors satisfaction, and he stood as a warrior should—unflinching and even threatening.
Later the captive escaped by leaping naked into a cold and swift river. The Warrior could have struck him but he chose to watch with interest the desperate attempt. When others lost the white's track, The Warrior followed, respecting the struggle through the forests, reveling in the courage that drove the starved figure toward the rising sun.
When the white's strengths faltered, The Warrior made his presence known by gifts of cooked squirrel, and the white safely reached the mighty rise of the Tuscarora.
There The Warrior left him, for the sleeping place of Friend Seeker and his own tasks lay ahead.
He knelt, facing from where the sun rose. He placed his hands palms up on his thighs. He straightened his body, and allowed thoughts to form.
Undisturbed, the grave of Friend Seeker lay sun dappled and dotted by the first spring growths. He again spoke long to the spirit of his teacher, telling of the winter's disillusionment and asking for his help in speaking with The Sky Father.
As usual, the thought pictures were many. They appeared and fled—old memories of happenings long past. Finally the sustained courage of the captive in the face of almost certain death again touched his mind and lingered. If other whites possessed the same heart, perhaps there would be honor and satisfaction in facing them in war.
The Great Spirit provided no answers, but visions of the twisting valleys lying before him swelled and flooded his mind. Long had he neglected them, but once he had been one with the ridges and streams. There, at the lodge of E'shan, he had named Quehana, who made the magic arrowpoints. There he had captured the heart of Pond Lily, and there also he had learned the warrior ways that had supported and driven him through all of his days. Perhaps those valleys held the answers he sought with such desperate hunger.
He rose, serpent-smooth despite long kneeling. Methodically he completed the stretches and tensionings that tuned and conditioned his body. Then he trotted easily down the steep mountain and into the heartland of Sherman's Valley.
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The valley stank of war and desolation. Whites had hacked stump-speckled fields, and their burned cabins dotted the hollows. Without the softening protection of summer foliage, the very earth seemed pillaged and no longer a place for living. He saw horses and the white man's hogs loose in the forest and strange birds that could barely fly. A thrown tomahawk killed one of the cackling birds and he cooked and ate it. The flesh seemed weak, without taste, and he wondered if such food did not also weaken those who ate it often.
There were dead scattered about. Most were in mounded graves apparently favored by whites. Those had medicine stones with strange markings. The Warrior studied them, but the pictures were unclear. Other dead lay unburied within forests. Often they had fallen close to the old trails. Most were white and some had lain for many seasons.
The Warrior found no living whites and rested for the night along the Big Buffalo. Before dawn he turned toward the Deer Spring.
A young white chopped firewood at a crude cabin, his gun placed close to hand. The Warrior moved silently as death until he stood directly behind the white. When the man paused, he reached out and counted coup by touching his enemy's back.
Turning, the white leaped a startled step. The Warrior saw terror claim him; fear rolled the white's eyes into his head and he fell to the earth unconscious. Appalled, The Warrior stared. Except for the movement of breathing, the white might be dead. The stench of released bowels rose from him, and The Warrior turned away in disgust.
Nearby, another cabin appeared occupied. Listening against a wall The Warrior heard breathing within. Drawing a hatchet he sprang inside, but no figures rose to challenge him. The reek of excrement, sweat, and vomit was stifling. Figures lay beneath blankets, and snatching one away he saw sickness close unto death. The wasted body barely responded to the blanket's removal and clouded eyes could not focus. The Warrior replaced the fouled blanket, wondering that the sick did not prefer to crawl at least to the clean air beyond the cabin's stink. He left the cabin, sucking huge lungfuls of fresh air to clear away the foulness of the cabin.
Above the Deer Spring a mighty fort guarded by many declared the power of the whites. In evening dusk The Warrior stood among trees seeing watchers at the walls and hearing the noise of an entire village within. Whites were louder in their activities, but there was both laughter and disagreement in the voices. Occasionally the smell of the place came to him and he marveled that men would live there.
Barring entrance, the wall of the fort reared high beyond a ditch. When the sky darkened before the moon rose The Warrior came close under the wall and listened until the watcher's footsteps turned away. He drew back to gain a run. Then, in full stride, he leaped high across the ditch, striking the log wall with one foot and grasping the top edge with one hand.
He drew himself up until he could see into the fort. The unsuspecting watcher dawdled well away, while within, a multitude of whites moved about a single, central fire. There were many men, but their muskets were not carried and he saw no bows. He muscled himself over the wall onto the watcher's platform. No eyes tu
rned upward and he reached the watcher in a few silent bounds.
He caught the man at the throat, cutting off any cry of alarm. His other hand plucked the musket from limp fingers lest it fall. He raised the white from his toes, holding him dangling and close where he could look into his eyes. He saw stark fear turn to resignation and felt no resistance in the slack body.
The Warrior's mind struggled to accept the white's surrender. While breath remained, an Indian would have fought with his feet and nails. His body would have been bowstring taut, and his eyes would have screamed defiance. He released the white, allowing him to slump against the wall, dragging air into half-starved lungs. He forced the musket into the white's lax grasp, and still saw no hint of resistance. The white stayed slumped and helpless against the parapet, unwilling even to warn his village.
Below, the whites milled like pond ducks, their quackings unchanged. Almost in desperation. The Warrior grasped the white's scalp and threatened it with his knife. The white whimpered softly and sagged completely.
The Warrior gazed for a moment at the whites in utter contempt. Then he vaulted into the darkness hearing the watcher vomit in a violent gush onto his own feet. He was well into the woods when a musket thumped, followed by great shouting. Later more shots were fired into the darkness, and The Warrior, far beyond range, could only wonder at what they fired.
During the night The Warrior pondered his experiences but could find no special meaning. Perhaps The Great Spirit wished merely to show him that whites were not his concern. Yet he had traveled far and believed a greater reason must exist.
For another day he pondered before re-crossing the Tuscarora and beginning slow travel toward the forks of the Ohio. A small fever touched him, and he dedicated it to The Manitou and welcomed the challenge of its discomfort. In two days the fever had swelled, causing mighty sweats and bone wracking chills. His joints ached unceasingly, and his lungs labored at even a slow walk. That day he vomited a sickly black and chose to eat no more.
The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 24
