The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby

by H L Grandin

  Tyoga was torn between despair and reconciled acceptance. He knew more intimately than most the terrible price that would be exacted by the white wave that would flood the ancient lands of the Cherokee, Choctaw, Iroquois and Chippewa. Like the ocean ceaselessly pounding the sandy shore, the footprints of the Native Americans would be wiped clean by the waves of white settlers who would wash over the mountain in torrents. With their advance, the stories told around campfires would be replaced by books in white clapboard school houses; clergy in steepled churches would supplant the shaman, spirit guides, and the sweat lodge; and wheel-rutted roads would replace his beloved mountain trails. The ways of living in, and as part of, the natural world would be lost forever.

  After some time had passed, Tes Qua began the conversation anew.

  “What about Praire Day, Ty?”

  “What about her?”

  “She wishes you to take her. All the People know that she wants you very much.”

  “Tes Qua, she is Chief Silver Cloud’s daughter. He will arrange her marriage and he will choose Wind Rider or Stands with Fist.”

  “Be careful, my friend. She has you in her sights, and she is a very good shot with a bow.”

  They laughed. Tyoga not as hard as Tes Qua.

  Alone in the silence of the night with their thoughts, the patter of the rain lulled them to sleep.

  Chapter 17

  Seven Arrows

  The young men began to stir shortly before sunrise. The rain had stopped during the night and the morning air was damp and brisk.

  Tes Qua was the first to hear the mocassined feet clumsily shuffling through the leaves and carelessly breaking branches as they approached the makeshift shelter.

  Whoever was approaching their campsite was not concerned about a steathly approach. They had the young men trapped. The spit of land upon which they had camped was surrounded by the raging waters of the Rapidan on one side, and the Rappahanock on the other. There was one path in and only one way out.

  “Ty!” Tes Qua exclaimed in a whisper that was louder than he would have wished it to be.

  “Yeah.” Tyoga was already reaching for his rifle.

  The reflexive reach for his weapon was the instinct of a seasoned mountain man. The blood draining from his head with the panicked realization that their flintlocks were dismantled and that they had no firepower between them was a response more primal still.

  He looked at his companion. “Tes, the rifles.”

  They were unarmed and defenseless.

  The sanctuary of their lean-to had been transformed into a trap.

  The footsteps grew louder and closer. The voices of the men approaching indicated a party of more than two.

  They grabbed their knives. Tes Qua picked up his Cherokee tomahawk.

  “Nay a, Tes Qua. Don’t let them see the tomahawk. Put your knife in your belt under your shirt. We’ll go out like we’re unarmed.”

  They heard the footsteps stop just outside of their shelter.

  A booming voice thundered “Eh ya taho, indea a ho, eh alo”

  “What did he say, Tes?” Tyoga knew only a little Shawnee. However, Tes Qua was a good speaker of the language.

  With the water roaring at full volume into the confluence of the two rivers, it was difficult to hear the words. The voice from outside repeated, “You in the shelter. Come out.”

  The giddiness of the voices surrounding the spokesman indicated that they were perhaps in for some hassle, but not in any real danger. A second miscalculation.

  “Eta ho, Tes,” Tyoga said calmly. “Let’s go see how we can entertain our guests.” He shot Tes Qua a crooked grin.

  Tyoga’s nonchalance encouraged Tes Qua, and he flashed back a nervous grin.

  They put on their dry moccasins, and climbed out of the lean-to on their hands and knees.

  Tes Qua was out first. Tyoga crawled out of the shelter, rose to his feet, and stood alongside his friend.

  When he turned to face their “guests,” he stared into the smirking, painted face of Seven Arrows

  The Indian’s eyes opened wide in amazement at the sight of Tyoga Weathersby standing, a prisoner, before him. Although they had not seen each other for many years, Seven Arrows recognized him right away. He had listened half-heatedly to the tales of the legend growing up, but more importantly, had felt the sting of Tyoga’s alpha male domination on more than one occasion.

  Seven Arrows’s reputation had grown along with that of Tyoga, but his was rooted in fear and loathing. As the overindulged eldest son of Yellow Robe, Chief of the South Fork Shawnee, he was pampered as a child, tolerated as an adolescent, and feared as a ruthless young adult who wielded the power of his station with disregard for collateral consequence. He bullied his way through childhood with a cadre of obedient pawns who understood the important role that he would one day play as the result of nothing more than accident of birth. Torturing and killing for nothing more than the shear joy of being acknowledged for the deeds, he carried on with the slaughter of innocent animals that he had started with the baby ducks at So-hi pool.

  The Shawnee called Seven Arrows, Puta Loga, which translated loosely to “strangler of life,” and he lived up to the sobriquet in every possible way. He snatched joy from celebration, squelched laughter from festivity, and quelled honor from sacrifice and courage. His savagery knew no bounds and his ruthlessness no limitations.

  The only person who had been able to keep him in check was Tyoga Weathersby.

  Ever since the incident at So-hi pool when Tyoga shamed him into submission with no more than his words, Seven Arrows had made him and Tes Qua the target of his special attention. A few years younger than Tyoga and Tes Qua, Seven Arrows and his Shawnee companions would follow them as they traveled through the mountain passes, disturbing the game they were stalking, harassing their campsite through the night, and stealing from them whenever they could. Their game came to an abrupt halt one late July afternoon when, Tyoga and Tes Qua had turned the table on Seven Arrows’s plan to raid their campsite along Dawson’s Creek. Waiting in ambush to catch him and his companions as they made off with Tes Qua’s best bow and nearly all of their provisions, Tyoga and Tes Qua forced them to walk home, eight miles along the Appalachian Trail, completely naked and empty handed. At thirteen years of age, they were well past the time that young boys covered themselves with loin clothes. Their naked entrance into South Fork was far less an insult to their pride and machismo, than the fact they had been forced to surrender their bows, arrows, and knives. It took Seven Arrows months to reestablish his position and stature. Those accompanying him never rebounded from the shame.

  Tyoga had not encountered any members of the South Fork Shawnee since the misadventure on the summit of Mount Rag. He learned long ago that two of the Indians mauled on the mountain top were the sons of the Chief of the South Fork Shawnee, and Seven Arrows’ younger brothers. That the older brother of the two dead Shawnee Braves would be the first person from the tribe Tyoga should come across was but an unfortunate happenstance of fate. He was sorry that it should be so.

  As the morning fog greeted the new day with its timeless descent to the floor of the river gorge and an icy mist shrouded the young men in a cape of chilling gray, Tyoga said with indifferent dismissal, “A-ho Sesche picqua.”

  Tes Qua began to shiver when the muddy ground soaked through the leather soles of his once dry and warm moccasins, and the breeze from the rushing water slapped the saturated air against his naked arms.

  Tyoga’s feet were equally cold and wet, but he did not allow himself to shiver. Steely eyed and with no hint of concern, he remained calm, cool, and collected. His eyes left Seven Arrows for only a split second to scan the underbrush to their right along the shoreline. He saw what he needed to see.

  Three young Shawnee braves were with Seven Arrows. They appeared to be in their late teens to early twenties. Their faces and bodies were painted with the colors and designs that clearly identified them as a marauding band of d
og soldiers out to rob, kill, and scalp any unfortunate passers-by be they Indian or white settlers. In deference to his age and rank, the three remained a respectful distance behind Seven Arrows who stood directly in front of, and very close to, Tyoga. The condescending smirk left his face as he leaned forward and sniffed at Tyoga’s head and neck—a sign of disrespect.

  “Tey a taya ucun skinuka,” Seven Arrows said with obvious disdain, and then spit on the ground.

  The braves with Seven Arrows slapped at the air, and at each other, as they laughed out loud in a rowdy chorus of consent with his remarks.

  Tyoga, who had riveted his gaze on Seven Arrows until that moment, looked away and turned his body so that he was not facing him. This was understood by the Indians as an insult of equal disdain.

  Still looking away, Ty asked, “What did he say, Tes?”

  “You don’t need to know, Ty.”

  The slight of averting his gaze and turning away deeply offended Seven Arrows. He expressed his agitation by pacing randomly about the campsite. He was a powerfully built young man. His broad shoulders and upper arms were painted in black, and his biceps were accentuated by the leather adobes that encircled each arm. His left eye socket was painted black from mid-cheek to above his eyebrow, and his head was shaved save for a bristly brown stripe from his forehead to the nape of his neck. As he nervously paced, he never took his eyes off of Tyoga. Filled with years of festering rage at his disgraceful naked march through the woods to South Fork, the recent loss of his two younger brothers on the summit of Mount Rag, and the disdain with which he was presently being treated, he was unable to contain his anger any longer. Exploding in a convulsion of rage, Seven Arrows screamed so that words spit into Tyoga’s face, “You killed my brothers!”

  Raising his fist as if to strike Tyoga, he took two determined steps in his direction. As he stepped forward he pushed Tes Qua out of the way, which nearly threw him to the ground.

  Recovering from the shove that turned him completely around, Tes Qua caught a glimpse of a hazy gray presence darting through the underbrush. Righting himself, he looked again towards the thickets beyond the bank. He saw nothing.

  Seven Arrows approached Tyoga with his fists clenched high over his head and murder in his eyes. His charge was so fierce that he fully expected Tyoga to cower in fear, move out of the way, protect his head from the blow or run for cover in the woods. But he didn’t flinch or even uncross his arms. Standing tall and strong in the face of Seven Arrows’ attack, he allowed him to get as near as he dare.

  When Seven Arrows got close enough to see the ominous sizzle of Tyoga’s piercing golden eyes, he found himself frozen in place. A tiny, nearly inaudible gasp accompanied his quick step backward towards his companions. At that instant, he realized who had been shamed into cowering with fear.

  Tyoga had done it again.

  With his fists still clenched and held over his head, Seven Arrows screamed out loud in anger and frustration at the indomitable bearing of this powerful adversary. Turning quickly away from Tyoga so as to avoid the menacing glare of his transforming eyes, he began pacing once again.

  He didn’t know what to make of the change in Tyoga’s eyes. For years he had heard the story of the boys’ encounter with the Runion wolf pack as it was retold around countless lodge fires in the Shawnee village. He was young when the battle with the commander had occurred, and he had discounted the stories as fanciful yarns told by the elders to entertain the women and scare the young braves. But the savage slaughter of his two brothers on Mount Rag had forced him to consider the possibility that the stories were true. Could he be at this very moment tempting fate by facing down a living legend? Staying a safe distance from Tyoga, Seven Arrows yelled again with less intensity, “You killed by brothers. They were only young boys.”

  “I never killed anybody, Seven Arrows,” Tyoga replied. “I never even saw who was up on the mountain. We never set eyes on who was chasing us. Alive anyway.”

  “Liar! You tore them apart.” He was near tears. “It was I who led the party to recover their bodies. You left my little brother, Spotted Calf, without a face.”

  The three braves with Seven Arrows had stepped away from the two warring Titans. The battle between their leader and the Legend of Tyoga Weathersby was an encounter of more intensity than they wished to stomach. Standing off to the side, close to the underbrush that ringed the campsite, was the better part of valor.

  Abruptly, they looked at each other and cocked their heads inquisitively as if questioning the silent signals they both were sensing. Their years in the wilds of Appalachia had taught them to read the air and smell the wind. An unaccounted for presence never went unnoticed. Whispering to each other, they reached over their shoulders and pulled arrows from their war quivers. As they each notched an arrow in their bowstring, they bent at the waist while peering into the underbrush behind them and to either side.

  The bushes were still. The ground undisturbed. It was as if the presence was part-of rather than separate-from the very air that surrounded them. It was everywhere—and nowhere at all.

  In a low, controlled voice Tyoga said to Seven Arrows, “I told you that I didn’t hurt anyone.”

  Tyoga’s chest and arms swelled with the blood rushing to his muscles and engorging them with the power of Wahaya. The final tinge of hazel drained from his eyes to allow the hot yellow-gold to penetrate the morning mist with indifferent resolve.

  The transformation, though subtle, was readily apparent to Seven Arrows. He would tell his grandchildren that on that day he witnessed the transformation of man into beast. He would go to his grave swearing that the legend of Tyoga Weathersby was no legend at all. He trembled with fear.

  He heard one of his companions say, “Eh no tuta lo eh alo. Reshkulu na tay ya.”

  “A – ho. Le nasht tsy la.”

  Seven Arrows instinctively understood that he could not run from the encounter. To do so would be to turn himself into prey. He wasn’t sure if he was dealing with man or beast, but he would not risk triggering the predator’s attack. His mind raced as he tried to think of ways to quiet the demon bubbling up from deep within Tyoga’s soul.

  Assuming a more apologetic tone, he said to Tyoga, “So maybe it wasn’t you that killed my brothers. Maybe it was your spirit wolf. Maybe it was your Wahaya.”

  As Seven Arrows slowly backed away, he continued to stare into Tyoga’s vacuous amber eyes. He could not break away from the haunting glare that penetrated his façade of bravado and peeled away his shallow veneer of bravery. The blood draining from his head and hands, he stammered. “Or maybe … maybe you are the spirit wolf. Maybe you can’t control it. You don’t want these bad things to happen. Is that it, Tyoga Weathersby? Is it true what they say about you? Answer me! Why won’t you answer me?”

  His words were swallowed by the icy gray gorge. A deep guttural rumble filled the campsite from the forest floor to the tree-top canopy high above. Filling the space with the chilling pall that accompanies inevitable finality, its presence was palpable. Nearly inaudible at first, the rumble grew into a growl of such unearthly intensity and volume that its meaning was discerned not by sound, but by the visceral interpretation of heart and lungs and bowel.

  Bow strings drawn ready to fire their obsidian-tipped arrows into whatever evil lurked in the shadows, Seven Arrows’ braves pivoted on their heels in search of the source of the warning.

  The sound saturated the scene with a paralyzing terror that awakened a palpable recognition that nature’s power unchecked is devastatingly cruel in its dominion and finality. It was the terror. It surrounded them, penetrated them, and became them in its rawness and truth.

  Eyes riveted on Seven Arrows, Tyoga allowed the truth to be heard before issuing the command, “Nay-ya Wahaya-Wacon.” He said to the wind, “Etsola.”

  The growl stopped. Its echoes receded into the morning mist.

  “So … it is true,” Seven Arrows said. “The spirit wolf does watch over you.”r />
  Tyoga took two steps toward him, and bowed his head so that his chin was nearly resting on his chest. “Leave us,” he whispered in a voice that was no longer his own. “Leave us in peace.”

  Tyoga’s fists were clenched but at his sides. His focus never left Seven Arrows. He took another menacing step forward so that he was only inches away from his painted face.

  Lifting his head so that he was staring straight into the eyes of his foe, Tyoga whispered again in a low measured other-worldly voice, “Go. Now. Before something terrible happens to you and your men.”

  Leaning into Seven Arrows so that his lips almost touched the Indian’s pierced ear, he whispered nearly inaudibly, “I won’t tell you again.” When Tyoga was finished speaking, he did not pull his lips away. He remained bent at the waist, his face menacingly close to Seven Arrows.

  Seven Arrows was forced to back away from Tyoga’s threatening posture. The deferential retreat caused him to quake with a shame that emptied him.

  “We will go, Tyoga Weathersby. But this day is not over. This day will not end until my brothers are avenged. I will find a way.”

  The three young Shawnee braves with Seven Arrows had preceded him in backing down the path toward the woods with their bow strings still drawn.

  Before they disappeared into the woods, the wolf could contain himself no longer and loosed a deafening howl that pierced the shadowy fog, and shook the trees with its power and might. The overpowering force of the haunting scream caused all of the men, save Tyoga, to clamp their hands over their ears. The Shawnee braves, still covering their ears, ran as fast as they could towards the woods and away from the oppressive howl.

  As Seven Arrows backed down the trail, his gaze never left Tyoga’s eyes.