The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby

by H L Grandin

  When he got to the crest of the ridge, he saw a clear route to the tidewater in the east.

  He had been to Middle Plantation in New Kent once with his papa. It was about two weeks due southeast from South Henge.

  He had been traveling three days toward the northwest so that would add a couple of days to the trip. He calculated that if he pressed on he could make it before his supplies ran out.

  With a spring in his step, he trotted along the ridge while thinking out loud. “I’ll go the Mattoponi north of Middle Plantation. They are Algonquin. Papa said that they were once part of the Powhatan confederation. They will give me a place to stay and help keep me safe.” With that said, he picked up his pace.

  Along the ridge, footpaths were well worn and the slope varied little for the first few miles. The wind blew his long brown locks of hair out of his eyes and he recalled how Sunlei used to do that when she wanted to look into his eyes.

  He was confident that she had made it safely to Chickamaugua and he knew that Lone Bear’s large family would keep her safe. He had no way of knowing that she had left the safety of the Chickamaugua Cherokee and was lost to the wilderness. Certain that their separation would be for less than a year, he was already planning for their reunion in the spring.

  Prairie Day’s red blanket was draped over his right shoulder and secured to his waist cinch. He held onto it with his left hand while he ran.

  He could not get Prairie Day out of his mind. The village mourned her husband Running Elk’s loss in battle. Tyoga noticed how she watched him from afar whenever they were around one another. When she lost her son to miscarriage, she summoned Tyoga to her lodge. She held him close and cried. He dismissed it as nothing more than a lonely friend seeking comfort, but understood after Green Rock Cove that there was a great deal more to the summons and tears.

  He was lost in thought about the magic in her eyes when it happened. It was so fast that he had no time to prepare himself for the fall. A loss of concentration, and one misstep sent him careening off the trail and onto the shard covered slope to his right.

  His right shoulder hit first to send him tumbling out of control for the first twenty-five feet. He righted himself and was able to sit up so that his feet were in front of him while he continued sliding down the slope on his back and rear end. The granite shards were like razor blades cutting chunks of flesh from his hands, legs, back, and thighs. Faster and faster he raced down the slope with no way to control his speed or direction. His right foot hit a more substantial boulder, which spun him around so that he was sliding backwards down the slope. He watched bits of his clothing and hunks of his flesh speckle the slate gray slabs of rock bright red with his blood.

  Tyoga saw some shrubs and bushes bordering the pine trees to the west. Throwing his weight in that direction, he changed his course so that he headed directly for the underbrush. He reached out a bloody hand and tried desperately to grasp a branch that would stop his fall. The branches whipped his already bloody hands and arms with the sting of a lash, but none would give him mooring. He was finally able to throw himself off of the slippery slope and into the woods. He passed out on the pine needle covered ground before he was able to assess the damage.

  When he awoke the sun was setting. He was on fire from head to foot. The fall had torn him apart. His shirt and breeches were shreaded into rags. His backside, arms, and hands were slashed as if he had tumbled down a slope covered in straight razors. Some of the gashes had stopped bleeding. Because of the clean-edged incisions, others continued to bleed profusely.

  The lightheadedness he felt told him that he had lost a good deal of blood. He had to do something to stop the bleeding and he had to do it fast.

  With herculean effort, Tyoga picked himself up off of the ground and staggered further down the slope. Struggling to stay conscious, he felt his way like a blind man through the brush in search of running water at the bottom of the gorge.

  He hadn’t gone more than fifty feet before he heard the sound of rapids and waterfalls. Moving ever closer to the sound of the mountain stream, he stumbled faster and faster through the pines. When he got to the bank of the stream he threw the blanket onto the shore, staggered knee deep in and fell face first into the icy water. A lazy eddy twenty yards downstream turned crimson red as it filled with his blood.

  Tyoga lay in the water until he began to shiver. When he opened his eyes it was dark and the light of the moon guided him to the shore and his bloody blanket. The pain was too great for him to wrap himself in the wool blanket so he laid it on the ground, and went to sleep face down in the sand.

  The night was cold and dark when the moon set behind the mountain peaks. The cold was exactly what he needed to clot the wounds on his back and keep the swelling in check.

  Thankful for the gift, he shivered through the night.

  When the sun rose, he discovered that he had lost everything in his fall down the shard covered slope except the red wool blanket. His shirt was gone and what was left of his leather breeches did not even cover his crotch. Struggling to his feet, he stripped them off and threw them into the bushes. He picked the blanket up off of the shore, and wrapped it around him from the waist down. Securing it with his sash that was still in one piece, he began the agonizing climb back to the top of the ridge.

  He hadn’t been beaten yet.

  Chapter 42

  The Tidewater

  It took nearly ten days for Tyoga to reach the rolling foothills that were the gateway to the Appalachians from the east. With the mountains fading away to the west, and the low, flat, wetlands of the tidal piedmont ahead of him, the traveling became much easier and he covered ground more quickly.

  He had been able to recover his striker and flint from the bottom of the slope, allowing him to start fires for warmth and light. He was not able to hunt so he had been subsisting on what he could fine. Pine nuts, berries and carrion were his main staples. One day, he feasted on the remnants of a deer carcass. The remains of a rotting carp were less appetizing, but devoured with equal relish.

  He had not bathed or shaved in nearly three weeks. With no people from whom to hide his nudity, he had abandoned wrapping the red blanket around him. It was all that he had left to remind him of home and happiness, so he carried it, tattered and torn, thrown over his right shoulder and tied to his waist with his sash.

  Exhausted and nearly spent, he traveled on.

  In five days he made it to the outskirts of Essex. In six, he arrived in New Kent. On the seventh day, he swam the Mattaponi River, waded through the marsh and broke through the rushes and cattails that bristled the east bank of the river.

  There before his eyes, nestled between two giant oak trees, was the most beautiful grassy glade he had ever seen in his life. A brisk feeder stream creased the south edge of the open plot, and the north was protected from the wind by an enormous stand of birch and pine. The east perimeter abutted a forest of hardwoods, cedar, chestnut, and elm. Sturgeon and trout, shad and herring schooled in the shallows of the stream so that the surface boiled with life. Mussel shoals breached the mud flats of a broad estuary as ducks and geese fussed noisily over no particular spot to float.

  Holding back a curtain of reeds in each hand, he stopped and gazed at the land with an expression that required no words. This indescribably beautiful patch of land burned its brand into his heart with a single moniker.

  Home.

  He dragged himself from the kneedeep marsh and wrapped the blanket around himself to provide a modicum of formality to the arrival. He picked up a long, straight staff of hickory as he marched up to one of the giant oaks. Stabbing the hickory into the ground, he declared to the trees, “This will do,” before sitting cross legged on the ground.

  Hanging his head down between his knees, he was overwhelmed with the events of the past weeks.

  He had lost his love, his spirit guide, his family, friends, and home. He had crossed the Appalachian Mountains alone and arrived upon this piece of land in a cou
ntry that he knew little about. He felt completely alone for the first time in his life.

  Exhaustion and hunger threatened to shake the very foundations of his courage, strength, and will. His eyes welled with tears. Inside of him, he felt the beginnings of a body-wrenching sob over which he would have little control.

  He placed his head in his hands to accept the cathartic cry when he heard a familiar sound drifting down from the mountain peaks far off to the west. Soft and low, it floated across the Mattaponi like a welcome whisper. Another followed, louder and more resolute. The howl grew in intensity and duration as it was answered from peaks unseen from the north and south.

  The cries of the wolves buoyed his spirit to release the tears as sobs of joy and rejuvenation, rather than desolation and defeat.

  As the tears streamed down his cheeks, he looked off to the east where the dense hardwood forest bordered the grassy plain. In the trees he saw the silhouette of a human figure, cast hauntingly aglow by the light of the setting sun.

  He was anxious to make contact with another human being, be it friend or foe. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked again. He stood up and cried out in English, “Hey! Don’t go. Don’t—”

  He took two steps toward the woods and fell to the ground.

  He was spent.

  Chapter 43

  Salvation

  Tyoga awoke to the aroma of venison stew, corn bread, and azi. He was lying on a bearskin and was covered with a soft doeskin hide. His had been bathed and his wounds were dressed.

  When she came into the makeshift lean-to, he sat upright and pushed himself against the back wall.

  She was dressed in a buff-colored doeskin tunic. Long fringe lined the back seam of the tunic’s arms. Shorter fringe adorned the knee-length hem. Her long auburn hair was pulled to the side in a ponytail. Two eagle feathers hung from the leather tie. She wore puka and cowary shells around her neck. A thin gold necklace with a silver cross was peaking out from beneath them. She was bare foot.

  She stopped short when she saw that he was awake. Reaching out a slender hand in a gesture of friendship, she said in broken English, “You … safe … here. Safe … here,” she repeated as if asking if her words had been chosen correctly.

  “Who are you?” Tyoga asked.

  When the young woman looked at him as if she did not understand, he repeated the question in Tsalagie, “So de tsa do a?”

  Smiling with gratitude that he spoke her language, she said, “Da gwa do a Adohi Yutsa (Forever Girl). My … nem … name,” she pointed toherself, “mmmm … Trinity.” Opening her hand she placed her palm on her chest and repeated, “Trinity … Jane … O’Do—O’Doule.”

  When she moved closer to him, he could see her sparkling blue eyes and angular, chiseled features. “You’re a white girl,” he said to her in astonishment.

  “Yes,” she replied in English that was obviously difficult for her to summon.

  “But what are you doing here?” Tyoga asked in English.When it was obvious that it was easier for her to converse in Tsalagie, he repeated the question in her native tongue.

  “There is plenty of time for us to talk about that later. Right now, you need to drink and have something to eat. Wait here. I will bring it to you.” She smiled.

  After she scurried out of the lean-to, Tyoga saw that he was in a structure built of birch frame lattice and mud-daub sides. The roof was made of pine boughs and oiled deer hide. He grabbed one of the sidewall stays and gave it a tug. Whoever built the shelter had done a good job.

  Trinity Jane was ladeling deer stew into a clay crock at a stone-ringed fire pit that was about ten steps from the shelter’s open west side. He watched her put down the crock, pick up a gourd, and run to the river.

  She was a strong woman with shapely calves and arms that were used to work. She moved gracefully with a natural flow that was different from the posture and gate of the native women. She moved like Sunlei.

  Re-entering the lean-to with the stew steaming from the earthen crock and the gourd brimming with clear, cool water, she handed Tyoga the gourd. “Here. Drink first. You must be thirsty.”

  He emptied the gourd and asked for more.

  Showing her deep dimples and beautiful white teeth, she smiled broadly, handed him the stew and a piece of corn bread, and skipped to the river to refill the gourd.

  “How long have I been asleep?” Tyoga asked when she handed him the gourd of water.

  “Three days,” she replied.

  “Was it you that I saw standing in the woods watching me?” he asked.

  “Yes, I watched you cross the Mattaponi and walk up to the tree. I could tell that you were hurt, and tired, and hungry; I was afraid to approach you because…” She stopped speaking and looked down at the ground.

  Tyoga finished her sentence, “Because I was running around naked and talking to myself.”

  “Yes.” They both laughed out loud.

  When the laughter stopped, Tyoga put down the stew and reached out to take her hand in his. “My name is Tyoga. Tyoga Weathersby. And I have not laughed in a very long time. Thank you.”

  He watched her eyes dance when she searched for the next words. “You … welcome.” She reached out and brushed his hair from his eyes. “We need to do something about your hair. Turn around now and let me dress your wounds.”

  Chapter 44

  Trinity Jane

  Tyoga rested for the remainder of that day. Wrapped in the dirty and tattered red blanket, he did get up to walk to the woods to relieve himself.

  If felt good to be on his feet again. The salve or potion with which Trinity Jane had been treating the wounds on his back was working remarkably well.

  When he woke up on the fourth day, he found her at his feet laying out some clothes for him. “Et tey ya (good morning),” he said softly to her.

  They kept their conversations in Tsalagie for the time being.

  “Good morning,” she said with a glorious smile. “I have brought these clothes for you to wear. I hope they fit.” She added with an impish grin, “You are a very big man.”

  Tyoga knew what she meant.

  “Thank you, Trinity. Where did you get them? Did you go to your village?” he asked.

  “I could not find you new boots. We will have to tend to that later. Get up now. I have corn meal mush and venison warming. The azi (coffee) is ready, and we have a great deal of work to do,” was her diversionary reply.

  When he stepped outside of the shelter while wrapped in his blanket, he saw leaning against the giant oak a broad ax for felling trees, an adze for shaping logs, and two iron headed hatchets.

  When Tyoga stretched in the warmth of the morning sun, the red blanket fell to the ground. Standing naked in front of her, he yawned, scratched his head, and said, “I see you were serious about the work that needs to be done.”

  Trinity Jane shook her head and poured him a piping hot bowl of azi.

  The first day back on his feet, he and Trinity Jane worked to expand and fortify the shelter. They began by removing the pine bough and oil skin roof covering so that they could extend the sides upward to make some standing room inside the frame. It was hard work, but Tyoga found out quickly that she did not shy away from pulling her weight.

  Tyoga felled birch trees while Trinity Jane trimmed off the branches and sliced them into long pliable slats to extend the sides of the shelter. By working together in such a fashion they had enough slats to extend the sides up three feet all around in about four hours time. They finished weaving the slats around the vertical stays just before night fall.

  Muscles aching with the exhaustion that celebrates achievement and progress, Tyoga sat down by the firepit to watch the sunset while Trinity Jane cooked shad over the flames.

  “Did you catch those yourself?” Tyoga asked.

  “A-ho,” she replied.

  “What did you catch them with?” She answered by holding up her hands. They were scarred and calloused, but delicate in contour and size.
Her fingers were long and supple despite the evidence of hard work and cruel treatment.

  “You mean you waded into the water, reached down, and grabbed the fish?” he said in a teasing tone.

  “Yes,” she said. “That is exactly how I caught them. The shad are running in the rivers and streams this time of year. They are so plentiful that all you have to do is stand in the water and scoop them up onto the shore. Here. This one is ready.”

  While Tyoga was eating he looked closely at her face. She was tanned from being in the sun, and her face was smeared with the soot from the fire and dirt from toiling in the woods all day. When she leaned forward, the ponytail that was draped over the right side of her face fell in front of her shoulder to reveal a six inch scar that ran from just in front of her right ear along her cheek nearly to her chin.

  Despite the blemish, she was a lovely woman.

  “Where do you live, Trinity?” Because she was white, and had told him her name in English, he called her by her Christian name. She seemed to like it.

  “I have been with the Nansmond Powhatan since I was eight years old, but I do not live there anymore.”

  Tyoga did not press further, even though she had more that she wanted to stay.

  “I ran away from my village, my home, and my family. I was on my way to my sister’s lodge in the Mattaponi village of Passaunkack when I spotted you from the woods. The village is that way.” She indicated the direction of the village with a toss of her head. “I went there two nights ago and found these tools in the fields they are clearing for maize. I borrowed them. We must return them when I go to live with my sister. She does not know that I am here.”