by H L Grandin
Dancing Mouse and Morning Sky were awestruck by the grandeur of Twin Oaks. While they too were happy to see their old friend, they were mesmerized by the household goods the couple had come to possess. Furniture, iron skillets and knives, glass windows, spinning wheels, linens and down filled pillows left them speechless—and wanting.
They spent the afternoon talking and laughing and eating. They feasted on lamb, venison and duck. They tasted fruit from far away lands, and drank bottles of Bordeaux wines and Spanish Madeira. After their bellies were full, the laughter died down as the sleep inducingeffect of the wine took its toll. Some of the guests retired to their quarters to rest while others stretched out on bear skin rugs in front of the hearth.
Trinity Jane, Tyoga, and Tes Qua stepped into the parlor to speak in private.
Tes Qua could tell from the look on Trinity’s face that Tyoga had told her about his discovery of Sunlei’s whereabouts. He recounted his attempt to find and rescue Sunlei, and explained in a way that his brother Tyoga would not have been able to do, the life or death situation she was in as the result of Tyoga’s scheme to save the Mattaponi village of Passaunkack.
Understanding, Trinity Jane knew exactly what it meant. “So, Ty, when will you leave?”
“The day after tomorrow,” he replied.
“I am going with you this time,” Tes Qua demanded.
“Yes, Tes Qua, you will go with me to save your sister,” he said. “But we will separate at Tuckareegee. I will go into Kaniataro alone to get her. You will follow after me to help with our escape. We will work it out along the way.”
“Ah-ho,” Tes Qua replied.
“Will the rest of our friends stay here with T.J. and the children?” Tyoga asked “We’ll be gone for several weeks, and I will be obliged if Paints His Shirt Red and Coyote stay here at Twin Oaks until I return.”
“They will stay,” Tes Qua said. “All of them will stay.” Leaving Trinity and Tyoga alone, Tes Qua excused himself from the parlor to retire to the guest quarters for the night,.
Quickly getting up from her chair, Trinity crossed the room to where Tyoga was sitting. She knelt down in front of his chair and placed her tiny trembling hands on his knee. Her eyes welled with tears as she began speaking. “Tyoga, I know that you must go to rescue Sunlie. Your heart tells you that this must be done, but I do not think that you understand why. Dhitili, the why is what is important. If you go to find her to protect her and her child from harm and to return her to her people, then the reason is good and just and the right thing to do. But if you go to find her thinking that your heart will once again be whole, then you are mistaken.”
She paused to look around the room. Taking him by the hand, she stood him up and led him to the magnificent fireplace that lit the room with its warming glow. Stepping to the side of the hearth, they gazed out the window together at the land and the river and the mountains beyond.
“Tyoga, we have built a life here together that I cherish above all things. Because of who, and what we are, we bridge the white world from which we have both come to an Indian culture that burns within our hearts and ignites our very souls. The day may come when you must choose between the two. You have told me many times that in all things there are but two outcomes. And the one that is chosen is the right one because it will lead to the end that was meant to be. If that day should come, what will you choose? Will you choose the white world we have created on the edge of the frontier here, with me and our children; or will you return to the life that you led as a member of the Ani-Unwiya?”
Turning away from the window, she peered up into his face.
He continued to stare out the window.
“Tyoga, there really is no choice at all. This is your home. And this—” she added taking his hand and placing it over the new life swelling her abdomen. “This is what makes your heart whole.”
He looked down into her face aglow in the light of the roaring fire, and then gazed out the window to the mountains gently glazed in the supple moonlight.
The call came from far away. Maybe all the way from Keyser’s Ridge. Carried by the chilly autumn breeze, the haunting moan sailed down the jagged mountain slopes and through the hidden caverns and undiscovered valleys. The wail grew in pitch and intensity until it came in unending waves that penetrated the night with an urgency recognized by the wild things and those in whom the promise lives.
Trinity Jane looked up into Tyoga’s face and recognized the vacancy of his eyes and the slight smile that tugged his lips.
He was already gone.
Epilogue
The Search Begins
It had taken Tyoga, Tes Qua, and Brister, a week to cross the Appalachians to the Ani-Unwiya village of Tuckareegee.
Tyoga stood alone on Carter’s Rock.
He could see in the distance that the early morning mist was shrouding the jagged edges of Craggy Gap in a cloak of gossamer grey. Standing alone on the rise, he raised a knowing hand to shield his eyes from the piercing rays of the rising sun.
As he had done since he was a child, he bowed his head and looked away at the moment of sunrise. His Ani-Unwiya brothers had taught him that to intrude upon the privacy of the dying dawn was an act of which no man was worthy, but to revel in the splendor of the morning’s birth was a covenant of being.
Through eyes squinted to razor edge amber slits he watched the dawn bow to the caress of the blazing orange ball. The morning emerged from the glistening folds of the jagged gap, and flooded the new day with currents of prisomed newness. Brilliant colors of every texture and hue poured over the dawn’s pastel shadows to reveal the splendors hidden by the blackness of the night.
Far beyond were the rolling foothills of the Smokey Mountains. A step away and thousands of years below were the deep valleys and secretive hollows he had once called home.
He struggled to stand tall and to keep his feet. His papa would want him to stand tall. It was from this very spot that the awakening had occurred all those years ago.
On this day, the hallowed ground held no promise.
His senses were alive with the pulse of the wild, a second nature urgency that without taking notice was uncontested and free. He listened to the whispering breeze annoy the pines that surrounded him into a chorus of sensuous sighs. He could feel the musty loam beneath his feet quiver with promise, and the unforgiving certainty of its timeless age.
The kiss of the predawn air, moist and gentle upon his face was as intoxicating as a lover’s lips inviting him to enter while warning him to stay away.
He had never been so alone. He had never been so filled with dread.
He dropped to a knee and clutched the earth with his strong, calloused hand. For a long while, he knelt while his fingers burrowed into the dirt.
The pine needles pricked his fingers and the sensation awakened memories of those cold gray December afternoons when the family would venture into the woods around South Henge in search of the perfect Christmas tree. It was always he who would lie on the freezing snow covered ground while awkwardly wrestling the saw blade and tree trunk to a chorus of giddy squeals imploring him to hurry with the murderous deed.
He heard their voices now. As he raised the handful of dirt to his face, its loamy underbelly triggered the memory of plowing the fields with his papa in early spring and late fall. He remembered stumbling behind the mules and falling more times than he could count. His father’s strong hand would reach down to grasp him by the waist band of his britches just before the forward motion of the rig would drag him face first through the newly lacerated earth.
Bringing the clutch of earth to his face, his powerful grip released the pungent scent born of birth and decay. He closed his eyes and deeply inhaled its life giving essence. He held the dirt away from his face, gazed at it for a long moment, and dropped his hand to his side.
A cold mountain breeze carrying the taste of winter stung his face. His eyes began to tear.
The promise speaks to those who listen, b
ut oftentimes, the message is muddled and conveyed in phrases and subtleties rather than in sentences and absolutes. He thought it odd that he should recall the joys of Christmasses past and the strength of his father’s hand and the voices of his family.
Completely absent from the promise’s call were the faces and sounds of Trinity Jane and his children.
There was but one face seared into his mind’s eye, and a solitary voice that called out to him. He did not question the rightness of the visions and sounds. They simply were.
The why mattered not at all.
From the escarpment, he could see for miles through the rising mist. When the sun peaked through Thompson’s Gap, he was able to distinguish the silhouette of the Blue Ridge. Macy’s Peak, Cormak’s Pass, Clingman’s Dome, Rocky Top, Potowa Trail, peaks and passes he had scampered along as a child, hiked as a young man—alone and with friends—for as long as he could remember. Of these times, the hours hiking alone were the ones he most cherished, and the ones he most terribly missed.
He loved the morning hours, the newness of dawn enveloping all that is with the promise of the day. The land encased in a diamond
shroud of hoarfrost and dew would whisper to him when he alone shared the solitude with the dawn—and listened for the promise.
It was different when others were there. The secrets weren’t shared. Often, the whispered promise lost in idle chatter went unrevealed, unshared, and unkept.
But the message was never silenced by the serenity of the awakening woods. Alone, he could listen. In the silence, he heard. In solitude, he understood.
It was silent now. And he knew.
To keep her alive—he had let her go.
His life was full, but he was empty without her.
He turned to face the great oak.
And took the first step to find her.
The End
H.L. Grandin
Author Bio
H.L. Grandin grew up in the shadow of history near Mt Vernon, Virginia. As a boy he spent many hours exploring the hills, valleys and waterways throughout Virginia, which nurtured a deep appreciation for nature and its forces. Those adventures became the inspiration for The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby. For the last twenty-five years, H.L. has lived on a small farm in western Maryland where he and his wife raised three daughters and a passel of animals.
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