Raven Mocker

by Don Coldsmith

  She did not return to sleep that night, and was tired and miserable as they traveled on.

  It was not until their camp that evening that Kills Many approached her.

  “Something troubles you?” he asked. “Do you not feel well?”

  “No! I’m fine!” she almost snapped.

  Then she relented. She had not been entirely truthful with the party’s leader….

  “Forgive me,” she asked. “I would talk with you.”

  “Come, then,” he beckoned, and the two strolled a little way from the camp. Kills Many waited.

  “There is something I have not told you,” she began.

  “Yes? Go on.”

  “Kills Many, I am made to think that I am a Raven Mocker. You know that story?”

  “Of course. But how… ?”

  “It is a long story. That is why I left Old Town. The man who was killed… The knife… You heard… The night I left?”

  “Yes, but what does that have to do with you? You could not have killed him. You were on your way to Keowee.”

  “Maybe not directly, but I was responsible. And I took his life-years. I thought you should know. Now I will leave your party. I am sorry that had not told you before.”

  “I knew,” Kills Many said quietly, “—that you had been accused, that is. I did not believe this of you, and I still don’t.”

  “But it must be!” she protested. “I feel much younger.”

  Kills Many laughed. “You travel well too. But maybe it is that you are more active now. You are tired at night when we stop, no? Like the rest of us?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then there is nothing immortal about you. You are like the others. Besides, Mother, could you use your other spirit gifts without knowing you did so?”

  “Maybe, sometimes.”

  Kills Many pondered a moment. “That was a bad question. Let me try again …. I do not know the ways of such a spirit thing, but I have been told that you could not use your power to do harm to someone.”

  “I would, maybe. But it would come back on me.”

  “Ah! That is what I was getting at. Your conjures are for good, not evil, no?”

  “That is true.”

  “And you could not have used them to harm someone without knowing it?”

  “I think not ….”

  “And you did not know about the man in Old Town until the next day?”

  She was silent, and Kills Many went on.

  “So, you could have had no part in that?”

  “I suppose not ….”

  “Snakewater, your medicine is for good. Your power is from the One Above, maker of all things, no? I am made to think that you could not have both good and bad gifts of the spirit. But surely you could not without knowing it.”

  This made her feel somewhat better, but she would feel more confident if she had a chance to talk with someone like Spotted Frog—another conjuror. Still, the confidence of a man like Kills Many was a great help to her.

  “Maybe so,” she agreed, at least for now. But it was time to change the subject. “I wanted to ask of other things, Kills Many. How far is it to the Big River?”

  He smiled. “You grow impatient… We will know when we get there. But I have been told maybe fifty sleeps from where we started, east of your Old Town. Not that many if we travel well. A day or two of rain holds us back.”

  “Are there mountains all the way?”

  The country through which they were traveling was much more rugged than that to which she was accustomed.

  “No, no. These are called ‘Cumberland.’ We are starting down the western slopes. This whole area, here to the river, is being settled by whites. They have made it what they call a ‘state.’… They bought some of it, just moved into other parts. It is called Tennessee.”

  “I have heard the name.”

  “Yes …We are told that the mountains slope down into a flatter part—a plain. It is warmer there, because it is lower.”

  “There are Cherokees there?”

  “Some. Most, Chickasaws, in that part. But they are friendly.”

  “You intend to winter with them?”

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe. We will see how it happens. But I mentioned the warmer country? It goes to the Big River and beyond. There will soon be snow here, but not so much to the west.”

  “I see …. You plan to winter in the warmer country, beyond the mountains.”

  She felt considerably better having the confidence of Kills Many, leader of the little caravan. He reminded her, in many ways, of Three Fingers of Old Town.

  It was easier, now, to settle into the routine of travel, stop for the night, travel on. They talked with farmers along the way, mostly Cherokees… “Real People”… Sometimes they bought vegetables or fresh meat. Once one of the men of their party, riding ahead, was able to kill a fat buck deer. They paused there for the rest of the day to dress out and care for the venison, and to enjoy a big meal of fresh meat, all that anyone could wish for.

  Initially Kills Many had intended to spend the winter among the Real People in one of the towns in Arkansas. Then it became apparent that Arkansas was a great deal farther away than the travelers had imagined. To add to that a stretch of bad weather descended on the party, immobilizing them for many days. They camped, wet, cold, and uncomfortable, hoping that each dawn would bring a glimpse of the sun. Even on the best days it was only partly sunny. On the worst a mist of freezing rain built up a thick layer of ice on trees, grasses, even the canvas wagon covers. Beneath the icy crust on the ground was mud, deep and clinging, sucking wagon wheels down and holding them back. There was nothing to do but sit and wait, thawing and drying icy firewood before their fires so that it could be used next.

  “Unusual weather,” said a local man from whom they bought vegetables. “There will still be some good weather before winter. How far are you going?”

  They were speaking in Cherokee. The farmer was fluent in several languages, including that of the white man, though he was Chickasaw himself.

  “As far as we need,” answered Kills Many. “We want to find Cherokees west of the river, in Arkansas. We have heard there are Cherokee towns there?”

  “That is true.”

  “How far to the river?”

  “Two, three sleeps.”

  “Maybe we could cross and winter with them?” Kills Many asked tentatively.

  “Maybe. Depends on the weather. Pretty muddy now. A few dry days or a hard freeze, to travel on. But then you’d have ice in the river.”

  “Yes… would that become a problem?”

  “Maybe not,” said the Chickasaw. “The river is still open, I suppose.”

  “And how does one cross?” asked Kills Many. “The River must be wide at this place.”

  “Oh, yes!” chuckled the other. “But there is a boat, a big flat ferryboat, that will take you over. A white man runs it …. Cherokee wife… ”

  He paused and looked over the little caravan.

  “Yes… Maybe two trips, for all your party. But should be no problem, as soon as the weather breaks.”

  15

  Several days passed before it was possible to travel, with the alternate freezing and thawing. Then, two more before they arrived at the river. Snakewater knew that it must be big, but had had no idea of its actual breadth. It was a bit frightening, stirring the memory of old Cherokee tales of a water monster, said to resemble a giant leech. But those were only stories with which to entertain and frighten children ….

  Or were they? She shuddered a little.

  They moved on down the road past a cluster of houses, a smithy, and a structure that seemed to serve both as a store and a dwelling. At the water’s edge there was a wooden platform, part of it jutting out into the river. A couple of small boats were tied there. The far end of that dock appeared to float, hinged to the solid portion, and tied to it was the raftlike ferry. The travelers had encountered ferries before. Sometimes there had been a rop
e stretched across a creek to prevent the platform from floating downstream. Here there was none. It was apparent that the river was far too wide to string a rope. There were several oarlocks along the sides of the flat ferry, with large oars resting between the pegs. There were also a number of heavy poles lying on the deck.

  The ferryman was already looking over the travelers and their equipment, sizing them up.

  “’Siyo!” he said when Kills Many approached him. “All want to cross, I reckon. Ye’re all together?”

  “Yes …. That’s Arkansas over there?”

  “Shore ‘nuff … Okay… Two wagons, ten, eleven folks… Twelve horses or mules, couple crates o’ chickens… No charge for the poultry, I reckon, but ye’ll need two trips across for everything. Now, I’ll cut ye a deal if some o’ the men can use poles and oars. Current’s pretty heavy out in the middle there.”

  “We can do that,” said Kills Many.

  They were talking in a mixture of English and Cherokee, initiated by the ferryman.

  But Kills Many had a few questions.

  “You use poles all the way across?”

  “No, no,” said the ferryman. “Too deep. No, we pole upstream a ways and then row across. There’s a lot o’ driftin’ downstream afore we hit the other dock.”

  “What’s to keep us from drifting on down the river? Out to sea?”

  The boatman laughed. “Nothin’, I reckon, except it’s a long way to the sea. And it don’t work that way. Floatin’ trash, sticks and logs and such, drifts to the banks, except at flood time. Then it drifts to the middle. That’s how ye tell if the river’s still risin’ or fallin’. You ain’t from river country, I reckon.”

  “That is true,” agreed Kills Many. “Not this kind. We just need to cross.”

  “Fixin’ to settle over there?”

  “Yes… We’ll try to find Cherokees.”

  “Several towns of ‘em over there,” said the ferryman. “My wife’s one o’ the ‘Real People’ …. Reckon that makes me Cherokee, too, don’t it?”

  It would require at least half a day, the ferryman said, to load and cross with the entire party in two trips. It was already well past noon …. Sun had left her daughter’s house and started down the west side of the sky bowl.

  “You don’t want to land there just before dark,” the boatman advised. “Camp here, and we’ll cross in the morning.”

  So it was decided. They camped and watched the sunset beyond the far shore. Snakewater found herself eager to see what this new land would be like. At a distance it was hard to tell. There was a fringe of trees, but that was about all that could be identified at this distance. She watched the river a long time, listening to the sounds of the night creatures. She recognized the call of a hunting owl, the bark of a fox, and the soft whicker of a raccoon. Some things, she realized, remain the same.

  The next morning one of the wagons was driven out onto the wharf and across to the ferry. There were rails on the sides of the raftlike vessel, and gates at the ends to enclose the wagon, team, and passengers. The agreed-upon fare was paid in the gold coins of the white man, which surprised Snakewater a bit. But it was convenient, she realized. More so than packing trade goods or bulky items of value. Yes, she concluded. Kills Many had planned their journey well.

  Now she watched as the boatman instructed the inexperienced travelers in the use of the poles. They would stay as close as possible to the bank and push their way upstream “a ways,” he said. Then turn and push out into the current, to use the oars as they crossed diagonally to a dock on the other side. The ferryman and his helper, a quiet young Chickasaw, would do most of the rowing and steering, though he invited the help of any who wanted to try a hand.

  They pushed away and started the slow progress along the bank. The current was mild here, and once moving, the boat was propelled fairly easily. A few bow shots upstream they disappeared from view entirely, behind a bend in the riverbank.

  Now Snakewater began to understand more about the principles involved in the use of this ferry. They would use the flow as it curled around the bend; it would be easier to row across to the spot on the other shore where the current struck the opposite bank. But the return trip… No, they would again pole a little farther upstream, to reach a point above the curl of the bend, and cross into the backwater It pleased her greatly that she had been able to reason this out. It would help, too, to lessen her dread of the mighty river and the creatures that might hide in its muddy waters.

  It was well past noon before the crossing was accomplished. Days were noticeably shorter now, and the morning had been crisp.

  “Well, good luck to ye!” the boatman wished them as he pushed off on the return trip. “Ye can see the town there—ask about where ye want to go ….”

  A straggle of curious children gathered to watch them make camp. It was quickly apparent that there was much interest in the travelers. The “town” was hardly that, merely a cluster of assorted dwellings.

  “I wonder,” said Kills Many aloud, “if we should pay our respects to their chief.”

  “I wonder,” said one of the women, “if they even have a chief.”

  The problem was solved when a delegation of three men approached, sauntering informally to where the women were starting cooking fires near the wagons.

  “ Osiyo!” said one of the strangers, with a courteous smile.

  “’Siyo,” answered Kills Many. “You are Real People, then? Cherokee?”

  “Most of us. I am Little Horse.”

  “And I, Kills Many. We are traveling, as you see. May we camp here?”

  It was obvious that it was a campground, used by many, but it was only polite to ask.

  “Of course. Welcome.”

  “You are the Peace Chief, Little Horse?”

  The others chuckled.

  “Not really. We are only a few families here. There is no need for organization. Where are you going?”

  “We don’t know …. Looking for a place. Our country is becoming overrun with white men.”

  “Ah, is it not so! Well, make your camp and let us gather at the fire later, to smoke and talk.”

  “It is good! Wado… thank you.”

  It was a very informal council, more like a social smoke. The travelers almost outnumbered the locals. But they were all Real People. There was much conversation and the joy of discovering mutual friends and acquaintances. They smoked and talked and ate and drank kanohena, the hominy drink. Traditionally served to guests, kanohena was almost a ritual welcome.

  “It is good, sometimes, to follow the old ways,” observed Kills Many.

  “Is that your purpose in coming west?” asked Little Horse.

  “No, no, not really. We do not object to new things.”

  Little Horse refilled the pipe with tsola, lit it, and handed it to Kills Many.

  “I see,” he said. “Like me you enjoy a good knife and a fire striker …. A blanket, a horse … White man’s things, but not his ways.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Kills Many. “In fact, many of his ways are not bad, but there are so many of him!”

  There was a chuckle around the circle.

  “That is true,” agreed Little Horse. “They are everywhere, no? We even have one, Yona, over there. He is our pet bear.”

  The chuckle rippled around the circle again. Yona the Bear was apparently well liked, not merely tolerated. The man looked like a burly, good-natured bear. A couple of small children in his lap gave credence to that idea. Their appearance and their reddish hair suggested that these were Yona’s own offspring.

  “I am teasing him,” Little Horse went on. “Yona is my sister’s husband. He is a white man but knows our ways. He is almost a Real Person.”

  There was general laughter, and then a moment of silence.

  “You spoke earlier,” Little Horse said, “that your destination is unsure. Tell us more. Maybe we can suggest.”

  “Yes,” answered Kills Many. “We had heard that there were Cherokee
towns beyond the reach of the white man, west of the Big River. We had thought to find them, and to settle there. Someone said to cross the river and then inquire. So… well, here we are!”

  The good-natured chuckle rippled around the circle again. The goal of the travelers had been reached. They had crossed the river, after many days of travel.

  “It is good!” said Little Horse. “But as we have said, this is not entirely beyond the white man’s reach. He seems to go where he wants. No matter. Some of them are good, some not. About the towns, though, the Cherokee towns… Yes, there are several, starting with ours here. Another, a day’s travel to the west. They are mostly strung along this road westward.”

  “How far?” asked Kills Many.

  “Ah, I do not even know, my friend. The road goes on, I am told, many sleeps west. Maybe to the edge of the sky dome. We have heard of wide plains, and even mountains, bigger than those you came through.”

  “We don’t want to go that far,” said Kills Many. “For now, what we need most is a place to winter.”

  The other nodded. “That would be my choice. Time grows short. So consider…. Stay here a few days, hunt a little, lay in some supplies. Maybe send a scout or two to the nearest towns, to see if they will meet your needs. You need only a wintering place for now.”

  “That is true. What we need next, though, is to know where we will plant next season’s crops.”

  “Good. You have seed, I suppose. So… a few days here will let you begin to make plans, and we will enjoy your company.”

  16

  Back in Old Town a visitor inquired and was directed to the home of the Peace Chief. After the initial greeting he came quickly to the purpose of his visit.

  “I am called No Tail Wolf,” he began. “From Keowee. I come to ask about the death of my brother, Whipper—Whips His Dog.”

  “Yes,” mused Three Fingers. “An unfortunate thing.”

  “I have heard only stories of stories,” the visitor said, his voice filled with emotion. “I was away on an extended hunt when the word came. I want to know what happened.”