by Chris Blake
“I’m an Aztec,” said Zuma.
“And I’m British,” said Tom.
The boy thought it over, then shrugged. “I do not know either of those tribes. But as long as you’re not Mohawk, I am happy to help you.”
Tom watched as the boy pressed the clump of fuzzy green moss to his cut. In seconds, the moss soaked up the blood.
“That’s clever,” said Tom.
“Yes,” said the boy, crossing to a young willow tree and peeling off some strips of bark. “And this willow bark will make a good healing tonic once I take it home and boil it up. Do you feel well enough to walk to my village? It’s not far, just round the bend there.”
“Village?” said Zuma, sounding relieved. “So there are other people here?”
The boy nodded and helped Tom to his feet. “Yes. My people are called the Mohican.” He started walking towards the water. Tom and Zuma followed.
“My name is Rising Sun,” the boy said. “What are you called?”
Tom replied for both of them. “I’m Tom, and this is Zuma.”
Chilli let out an indignant bark.
“And this is Chilli,” added Zuma, giving the dog a pat.
As they travelled through the woods, Tom noticed how silently Rising Sun moved, avoiding things like fallen twigs. Tom copied him, trying to walk as quietly as he could.
“We call ourselves Mohican,” Rising Sun explained, “because it means ‘People of the waters that are never still’.”
Tom eyed the swift current churning under the surface of the wide blue river. It sparkled in the autumn sunlight. “I can see why,” he said.
“Why were you worried that we might be members of the Mohawk tribe?” Zuma asked.
Rising Sun scowled. “Because they are enemies of the Mohicans. They live on the other side of the river. And they are trying to drive us away so they can have these hunting grounds for themselves.”
“That doesn’t sound very fair,” said Zuma.
“Is that why you’re wearing war paint?” Tom asked excitedly. “Because you’re going into battle with the Mohawk?”
Rising Sun touched the squiggles he’d painted on his cheeks and forehead. “We believe these symbols and colours have magical powers.” He smiled sheepishly. “And I need all the help I can get.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tom.
“I’m a terrible hunter,” the boy admitted, looking embarrassed. He nodded towards Tom’s shoulder. “I mistook you for a deer.”
Zuma gave a wave of her hand. “It could happen to anyone.”
“That’s the problem,” sighed Rising Sun. “I’m not just anyone. I’m the son of Chief Tall Oak. My father is our tribe’s leader and also our greatest hunter and warrior. So of course I’m expected to be like him.”
“Maybe all you need is a little practice,” Tom suggested.
“But I don’t want to be either of those things,” Rising Sun explained. “What I really want is to be a medicine man. I like caring for others, and I’m good at healing injuries.”
“My, er, tribe calls that being a doctor,” said Tom. “And doctors are very important and highly respected.”
“Why can’t you just tell your dad you’d rather be a medicine man?” asked Zuma.
Rising Sun shook his head sadly. “The son of a powerful chief is expected to be a brave warrior. That’s why I was sent out here alone today – to test my hunting skills and prove my bravery. But as you can see, I haven’t done very well. I’m going home empty-handed.”
“No, you’re not,” said Zuma, scooping Chilli into her arms. “You’ve got us! And we’re much more interesting than a smelly old deer!” She giggled, but her joke failed to cheer up Rising Sun.
“My father won’t be proud of me,” the boy said darkly. “A hunter has to feed his family, and a warrior must be able to fight skilfully. I can’t do either.” He pointed ahead to a cluster of small, round huts. “Here is my village.”
“Great!” said Zuma. “I’m freezing. Do you think there’ll be a fire where I can warm up?”
“Of course,” said Rising Sun. “My people are very friendly and welcoming.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth when Tom heard Zuma gasp. Three huge Mohican braves stepped soundlessly into their path, blocking their way.
Tom turned to go back the way they had come, but found himself staring up at three more Mohican braves who had appeared silently behind them. These warriors were as frightening as the first three. All six wore feathered headbands and held sharp weapons, poised to strike.
Tom looked up into their painted faces and tried to remember what Rising Sun had said about his tribe being friendly and welcoming. Because as the braves glared down at him, Tom wasn’t feeling very welcome at all!
“Drop your weapons!” said Rising Sun.
Nobody moved. Tom gulped, sizing up the band of warriors who blocked their path. They all held tomahawks that looked like they could cut through him like butter.
“Let us past,” ordered Rising Sun.
The strongest-looking brave narrowed his eyes. “Not until you tell us who these strangers are.”
“They were lost in the woods, and I helped them,” said Rising Sun. He lifted his chin and added, “They are friends of your chief’s son.”
The braves lowered their weapons. Tom let out a sigh of relief.
“We are sorry to have stopped you, Rising Sun,” said the strongest brave. “We were scouting for Mohawk in the area. They have become bolder these last few weeks.”
Rising Sun nodded. “You were right to stop us, Gliding Eagle.”
“How did your hunting mission go?” asked another brave, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I see you are returning without so much as a chipmunk.”
Rising Sun lowered his eyes.
“Leave him alone, Waning Moon,” said Gliding Eagle. “I’m sure Rising Sun would have shot something if he hadn’t stopped to help these strangers.” With a polite nod to Rising Sun, he stepped out of the way and the three children continued on towards the village.
The Mohican settlement of round-topped wigwams wasn’t enclosed by any sort of wall or fence. It was completely unprotected.
No wonder they’re so worried about an attack, thought Tom.
The whole village was bustling with activity. Children played with corn dolls and practised shooting with toy bows and arrows. The women were busy cooking, some of them carrying babies on their backs.
“We are preparing for the cold winter ahead,” Rising Sun explained. He cast a grim glance towards a group of braves who were sharpening spears and axes. “And because of the Mohawk threat, our weapons must always be ready.”
A shiver ran down Tom’s spine. He and Zuma exchanged worried looks. They followed Rising Sun to the centre of the village, where a group of older men sat cross-legged round a fire.
“That’s my father,” said Rising Sun, motioning to a stern-looking man. “Chief Tall Oak.”
The chief was as solidly built as the trunk of a tree. His stern face was covered in tattoos, and like the other men he wore a beaded band round his forehead, with a single feather jutting out of it. His hair had been closely shaved on the sides, leaving a single strip down the middle from his crown to the nape of his neck.
“You have brought no deer,” said Tall Oak in a deep voice.
“I’m sorry, Father,” murmured Rising Sun.
The chief took a long suck on the carved wooden pipe he was smoking. His eyes never left his son as he unfolded his long legs and stood. His height was as impressive as his name suggested.
“What will we eat tonight, without meat? How will our braves remain strong to fight the Mohawk?” Now Tall Oak’s black eyes flicked over the strangers hovering nearby. “That little dog would not feed even a small child.”
Chilli whimpered in fear and buried his head in Zuma’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” said Rising Sun again. “But I was trying to—”
“Shoot the biggest
deer you’ve ever seen!” Tom interrupted.
“Right,” Zuma added, playing along. “It was charging out of the trees, right towards us. Rising Sun had his bow aimed and his arrow ready—”
“But I panicked,” said Tom, “and I ran right between Rising Sun and the deer. That’s how I got hurt.” Tom didn’t like lying to this important man, but Rising Sun had been so kind to them, it was now their turn to help him.
Chief Tall Oak looked at his son for a long, quiet moment.
“That’s not true,” Rising Sun admitted, stepping forward. “My new friends are trying to spare me the shame of what really happened.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I thought Tom was a deer and I shot him.” Again, the chief was silent. He lifted his pipe to his lips and puffed, then exhaled a cloud of smoke. Tom wished he could tell what the tall man was thinking.
“May I take Tom to the medicine man now?” Rising Sun asked softly.
The chief nodded and went back to the fire. Tom and Zuma followed Rising Sun across the village to a long, narrow bark-covered dwelling.
“This is Wise Owl’s longhouse,” said Rising Sun in a respectful tone. “He is our healer and spiritual leader.”
Inside the longhouse, a smouldering fire sent up clouds of fragrant smoke. As Tom’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could just make out the shape of a very old man with long silver hair and a deeply lined face. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved slightly as he whispered a string of strange words.
“He’s chanting,” Rising Sun explained. “Talking to the spirits and asking for their guidance. He’s in a trance so we must wait.” Rising Sun busied himself with tearing the bark he’d collected into smaller pieces.
“Let’s have a look around – the coin might be somewhere in here,” Tom whispered to Zuma.
Trying not to make it too obvious, Tom and Zuma searched the medicine man’s longhouse. The floor was strewn with animal skins and woven blankets. There were lots of dried herbs bunched together, as well as several hollowed-out gourds. But there was no sign of the gold coin.
At last, Wise Owl stopped chanting and walked slowly towards them. Rising Sun explained to the medicine man what had happened in the woods.
Wise Owl examined the wound on Tom’s arm and nodded approvingly. He put a leathery hand on Rising Sun’s shoulder. “A good medicine man understands that nature will always provide. You used your instincts well and helped a friend.”
Rising Sun seemed to glow under the medicine man’s praise. Together, the two of them brewed a tonic with the willow bark. As they waited for it to boil, Wise Owl began to chant again.
“He’s asking the spirits to help heal your wound,” Rising Sun told Tom.
“For your sake,” Zuma whispered, pulling a face and fanning the air beneath her nose, “I hope he’s asking them to make that stuff taste better than it smells too.”
When the brew was ready, Wise Owl poured the steaming liquid into a hollow gourd.
Tom drank it. It tasted horrible, but as the warmth of the drink spread through him, he realised that the pain in his arm was vanishing.
“Wow,” he said. “That stuff really works.”
“It always does,” said Wise Owl, smiling. He reached down to give Chilli, who was curled up on a raccoon fur, a friendly pat on the head. “I called upon the great energy of your animal guide to aid my prayers.”
Chilli yelped as though to say, “Who, me?”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking?”
Wise Owl chuckled. “This little dog has a big spirit.”
Outside the longhouse, a few people were building a new wigwam. They were bending young trees into a rounded frame. Tom and Zuma helped by holding branches in place while Rising Sun tied them together tightly. Even Chilli got involved, dragging branches over for them to use. When the frame was built, they covered it with sheets of tree bark. With so many helpers, the snug little house was soon finished.
“Wow!” said Tom, impressed. “It takes my tribe months to build a house.”
While Rising Sun helped a family move into the new wigwam, Tom and Zuma explored the rest of the village. Just beyond the houses was a field of tall green stalks that bobbed in neat rows as far as the eye could see. As he gazed across the field, Tom caught a glimpse of gold sparkling in the sun. “Zuma,” he whispered. “Is that what I think it is?”
Zuma squinted in the direction he was pointing. “I hope so!”
Tom and Zuma ran towards the gold, with Chilli sprinting along behind them. They skidded to a halt by a pretty young girl who was burying something in the ground.
“What’s that?” Tom asked breathlessly.
The girl blinked her large dark eyes. “Corn, of course.”
The golden sparkle that they’d seen had just been sunlight reflecting off a pile of yellow corn kernels. Zuma let out a frustrated sigh.
“What’s wrong?” asked the girl. “Don’t you like corn?”
“I love it,” said Zuma. “But why are you burying it?”
“To eat during the long winter months,” the girl explained, finishing her task and standing up. “Corn doesn’t grow in winter. And the weather is beginning to change.”
By now, Rising Sun had caught up with them. “I see you’ve met my sister,” he said. “Laughing Brook, these are my new friends, Tom and Zuma. And Chilli.”
Laughing Brook, thought Tom. What had the riddle said? ‘A stream that smiles.’ Maybe Rising Sun’s sister would lead them to the coin!
“I am happy to meet you,” said Laughing Brook. She patted Chilli and gave him a little treat from her pocket. Chilli gobbled it up and begged for more.
“I guess Chilli likes deer jerky,” said Laughing Brook. “Speaking of deer …” she gave her brother a concerned look. “How did the hunt go?”
“Not very well,” admitted Rising Sun. “I didn’t catch anything.”
“Don’t worry,” said Laughing Brook, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “There will be plenty to eat. I’ll make corn bread and roasted pumpkin.”
“Sounds delicious.” Her brother gave her a knowing grin. “What’s the catch?”
“You have to help me pick the pumpkins.”
Before Rising Sun could complain, they heard a commotion at the centre of the village. Rushing back, they found the braves had joined Chief Tall Oak round the fire. They were all carrying sharp-looking spears that glinted in the sunlight.
“What’s going on?” asked Zuma. “Have the Mohawks attacked?”
“No,” said Rising Sun with a grin. “It’s time to go fishing!”
Zuma ran excitedly over to where the braves were gathered. Tom, Chilli and Rising Sun trailed after her.
“Do you have a spear for me?” she asked the chief.
Tall Oak scowled. “The squaw should remain in the village.”
“That’s ridiculous!” snapped Zuma. She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. “I’m brilliant at fishing!”
“Er, our tribe does things a bit differently,” Tom explained nervously.
To Tom’s surprise, Tall Oak handed Zuma a spear. They followed the braves to the riverbank, where they began dragging canoes over to the water. The boats were made from long logs that had been hollowed out.
Tom and Zuma climbed into Rising Sun’s canoe, while Chief Tall Oak, Gliding Eagle and Waning Moon got into another boat.
“Remember the last time we were in a canoe?” Zuma whispered to Tom.
“How could I forget?” Tom replied.
On their last adventure, Tom and Zuma had found themselves in the Stone Age, where they’d narrowly escaped disaster on rushing rapids.
“At least this time we know how to paddle,” Tom said.
Zuma looked at the river’s swift current and grinned. “It should be a nice, easy trip.”
Tom looked in the bottom of the canoe for bait and fishing lines, but all he saw was some rope. “Where’s the fishing tackle?” he asked Rising Sun.
“This is all you need,” s
aid Rising Sun, holding up a wooden spear. Rising Sun tied a length of rope to the end of the spear, then attached the other end of the rope to the canoe.
“Why are you doing that?” Tom asked.
“So I can throw my spear further,” Rising Sun explained. “It turns it into a harpoon.” He grinned at Tom. “And if it falls into the water, I don’t have to jump in to get it back!”
Zuma dipped her hand in the water and shivered. “Good idea,” she said, then turned her own spear into a harpoon using another length of rope.
As they pushed off from the bank, Tom dipped his paddle into the water. Zuma sat back and turned her face up to the sun.
“Go ahead – make yourself comfortable,” Tom said, rolling his eyes.
“I will,” Zuma replied. “You two can paddle. I’m going to relax. Slaves never get to do that, so I’m making up for lost time!”
“But I thought you wanted to fish,” said Rising Sun.
“I do,” said Zuma. “Wake me up when you see a fish!” She closed her eyes and stretched out her legs. Chilli curled up next to her and began to snore.
As they followed the other canoe, Tom gazed at the trees lining both sides of the river. Their bright leaves glowed with autumn colours.
“It must be wonderful to live in such a beautiful place,” he said to Rising Sun.
“We Mohicans belong here by the river. That’s why we won’t let the Mohawk tribe drive us away.”
The canoe moved swiftly through the water. Tom suddenly felt as though someone, or something, was watching them. He turned his head towards the bank and thought he saw a flicker of motion through the leaves.
“Did you see that?” he asked. “That movement on the shore?”
“I was looking for fish,” said Rising Sun, his spear raised above his shoulder. “It was probably just a deer – they come to the river to drink.” He pointed in the distance, at a wood and stone structure built across the river. “We’re almost at the weir,” he announced.
