by Paul Clayton
Chapter 47
The day that Calling Crow collapsed, the wind stopped blowing. Despite the winter season, the heat grew oppressive, and there was no end to it. Calling Crow gripped his eagle’s feather tightly as he lingered for days near death, growing thinner and thinner. In daylight, his body was bathed in sweat and his expression was as one who is dreaming. At night, Green Bird Woman lay at his side, periodically waking to daub his brow and spill a few drops of water between his lips.
One night a familiar sound woke Calling Crow. A great wind had come up and raced happily through the trees. It was Emissee, giver and taker of breath. The leaves sang out their joy with a loud clattering. Calling Crow realized that Emissee had come to bear his spirit away to the netherworld. As a chief, he had been charged with protecting his people. And that he had done. He was ready. The town was ready, fields laid out, the hunters bringing in game. Swordbrought had grown into a man. Red Feather watched over Bright Eyes and her little son. All the bad things Calling Crow had seen in his vision would not come for a long, long time, until all his people were gone. Yes, it was time.
Soon Calling Crow would see all who had gone before him. He would look into his father’s eyes once again and feel the embrace of his mother; he would see Swordbrought’s mother, Juana, and Caldo, the great chief; he would see the good Spanish priests, Fathers Luis and Tomas, the wise old men, Mennewah, Rain Cloud and Sees Far, the big brave Little Bear-- everyone who had ever meant anything to him. He would fight again with the Timucua chief, Mantua, winning back his medicine pouch. Ho! It would be very good.
The leaves fell in a torrent from the trees, some of them rattling on the thatched roof, others skittering and chasing one another along the hard-packed dirt of the compound. Now Calling Crow was one of the leaves way up in the highest tree. He looked down on the sleeping village and wished he could say goodbye to his people, one by one. But there was no time. Emissee was waiting.
A withered old leaf not far from Calling Crow broke away with hardly a sound. Now the wind twisted Calling Crow to one side and then another, tugging at him harder, insistent. Shouting out his war cry, Calling Crow relinquished his grip and took his last breath. The wind bore him away over the darkened village. The white sand beach flashed by and he sailed out over the sea. Then he was gone.
Make sure you read the other books in the series:
Calling Crow (Book One of the Southeast Series)
Flight of the Crow (Book Two of the Southeast Series)
Also, see my latest historical:
White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke
And my novel about the Vietnam War:
Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam
And,
The Blue World and Other Amazing Stories
