The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Read online

  It was not unpleasant waiting within his thick cape, his hands warmed by Pond Lily's muff. The snow fell thickly, smothering village noises, and no dogs accompanied those who came to use the relieving place, but by dusk, the absence of Cloud Watcher began to seem remarkable. The Warrior assumed he must have closely missed the seer's first call of nature, for it would be inhuman to make only a single daily visit.

  Within the lodge, Cloud Watcher had been lost in dreaming. He enjoyed his ability to lose himself within thoughts so strange that he could only conceal them. Some were peopled by tribes that rode horses across vast, unwooded plains; often he encountered raging battles that he knew had happened long before; and on many occasions he met with uncles long dead who spoke of wondrous things that he too often could not understand.

  Lately, the whites called French had intruded his dreams, and they lighted a torment exceeded only by the anxiety caused by the one called The Warrior. In his dreams, the French gave gifts to his people and in their hands the gifts changed into grotesque creatures that caused the people to fall to the ground and writhe in death as their faces became pocked by running sores. It was a dream of horror that gave warning, but Cloud Watcher did not yet see a proper action.

  As stories of his awesome strengths and closeness to The Great Spirit had become increasingly repeated, The Warrior had risen as a personal challenge. Cloud Watcher had thought long about The Warrior and in his dreams he had seen the Iroquois roused as one by a mighty leader who mercilessly ground to nothing the people of the Chippewa.

  Clouded were the visions of The Watcher but clear was his call to his warriors and hunters to seek the Iroquois called The Warrior and destroy him. That many had failed and few returned only convinced him of the necessity to clip the bud. The rumblings of his own leaders he ignored, for they could not know the threat as he did. In the spring a Chippewa would surely succeed, and The Warrior would be quickly forgotten. He added a powerful medicine necklace of wolverine claws to the many he already wore. From them would come the small bear's ferocity and his words would transfer it to those who dedicated themselves to The Warrior's trail.

  A nagging at his loins forced Cloud Watcher to the present and he noted with disgust that it was again snowing. He ignored a heavy garment and moved quickly to make short work and return to the lodge's comforts.

  Beyond the lodge entrance the village lay white-cloaked and silent. His moccasins crunched slightly on old snow beneath the new but the sound barely carried. At the relieving place he lifted his long hemmed jacket and stared at nothing, making water as he had all of his days.

  A noose of fingers as large as wrists closed about his throat. The many necklaces ground into his flesh, cutting voice and breathing, and he felt himself whirled about to slam against a tree, looking too closely into eyes that glowed with a panther's cold fury.

  Instinctively, the fingers of Cloud watcher sought the wrist of his attacker but the arm was of hickory. His legs flailed violently but the kicks were ignored. If the eyes of the killer terrorized him, the words spoken in Onondaga paralyzed him and he hung in the killer's grip like a fish too long from water.

  "I am The Warrior called also The Iroquois. Strong is my arm but stronger is my medicine.

  "Use your powers, oh Cloud Watcher, for your time is short. Act now, you who send others, for you have only this moment."

  Helpless as a rabbit, Cloud Watcher had no hope. The clutch of the fingers tightened irrevocably and he could only stare back at the ironhard features that had long haunted his visions. A second hand joined the first and he was aware that his body was held free of the ground. Agony struck his neck and, as his sight blurred and vanished he felt or heard the bones of his spine grind and crumble like rotted wood.

  For many heartbeats The Warrior held the dead Cloud Watcher within his grasp. So tightly had he squeezed that his fists were nearly closed. So easily had the seer died that the death seemed unimportant. He dropped the limp body to shake tension from his arms and watched and listened to make certain no alarm was raised. As before, the village slept within the thickening snow.

  Effortlessly, The Warrior slung Cloud Watcher across a shoulder and stepped into woods cover to circle the village and gain the main trail. He searched for satisfaction in the death of the Chippewa but knew only relief that he would soon be done with it, and that the stream of challengers would cease. He had killed too often and the power of it no longer reached him. Far better to count an honorable coup by touching his enemy and defeating his spirit, but Cloud Watcher had caused too many deaths and his medicine required crushing.

  At the bent tree, The Warrior stripped naked the lax body. How puny it was in death and he wondered if his own muscled frame would lose size when it lay its final time.

  Without ceremony he knotted The Watcher's long hair into the single tree fork and stuffed a raven feather into the gaping mouth. He cut his lashings and the stripped tree swung upright, the body of Cloud watcher dangling far up its weighted bow. He gathered Cloud Watcher's clothing and necklaces into a bundle and walked down the trail to observe his work.

  It was good. With the night closing, Cloud Watcher would not be found until morning. How the Chippewa would moan. How they would fear the medicine of he who had destroyed their seer. Too long would they argue and tremble, and his trail would be lost beneath the new snow.

  Before spring stories would meet and it would be known that the medicine of The Warrior, who ignored the Frost Father, had placed the Cloud watcher among the dead uncles. The power of Cloud Watcher would die with the winter.

  He traveled steadily and on the second day, hurled bits of Cloud Watcher's clothing into a deep ravine. The necklaces he kept as gifts for Pond Lily who liked such decorations.

  Thoughts of Cloud Watcher in the Spirit World occupied some of the long marching. He tried to imagine how it would be when The Watcher met those he had sent against The Warrior. It was said that all who lived with honor smoked together in peace at The Great Spirit's fire. That would be a marvelous thing, and the cold sun moved far while he considered the amazing stories that could be told at the great circle. Almost . . . almost, he could long to be there. But in time he would arrive, until then The Great Spirit would hold forth many challenges for the protector of his people.

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  Chapter 16: Age 27

  Aughwick lay many marches to the south, and within Iroquois country The Warrior traveled less quickly.

  Upon occasion he played the game of appearing clad only in loincloth, but he allowed numerous valleys and cross trails to separate the appearances as it would not add luster to have neighbors comparing.

  At times he wondered if deceiving his own people was truly honorable, but Late Star had preached the importance of the people's confidence in his strengths. If they believed, they would act with courage and hope. A people, Late Star told, needed mighty leaders in battle and powerful thinkers in peace. Without them they wandered as sightless as moles. Leaders must stand large, for human flaw would be grasped at by those wishing to replace them.

  Few traveled during the cold months, but his request that the Seneca send runners to tell chiefs of the death of Cloud Watcher was honored by a rush of younger men anxious to accommodate the wishes of their fighter.

  There was pleasure in the warmth of lodge fires where he was made much of, but he showed little of his pleasure, maintaining the aloofness that prohibited weakening over-familiarity.

  To others, The Warrior must remain a mystery and a danger. Few would pass the coldness of eye and grimness of mouth. If there was loneliness, he had always known it and wore it as easily as the paint that shrouded his features.

  News of sickness in the south touched him at the edge of Seneca land, and soon the lodges he entered were filled with the feverish and glazed eyed, who hacked and coughed through yellow spittled mouths. Then The Warrior stayed in the woods where the air was clear of the stinks of many ill.

  With more marches the plague deepened, and deat
h wailing announced every village except those already abandoned.

  Never had he seen such a thing, and never had the old ones told of it. Like a wave, the puking sickness swept across the nations taking young and old as randomly as pigeon droppings. Experience taught that the timing was wrong. Sicknesses struck during all seasons, but powerful plaques appeared during spring when many traveled and met with those from other places.

  Yet death had appeared in winter's cold. It came as a mighty wave, and only the most fortunate were spared. Frozen like logs, the dead were laid in rows, the living unable to do more. Plainly, the plague had come from the south and The Warrior's fears for his own people mounted. No longer did he loiter. He slid through the forest like a deer in flight. If his people were not yet touched, he would move them quickly away to a place the breath of sickness would not find.

  More than once his mind played with an imagining that the illness could be some vengeance of Cloud Watcher's spirit, but the thoughts did not last. If the Watcher had possessed such powers he would not now be among the old uncles.

  The Warrior ran on, stretching his endurance to quickly reach the few whom he treasured.

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  Late Star sat as always, bundled in robes with little more than his eyes showing, but the muddiness was gone from his eyes and they shone with sharpness of mind. His words too crackled with the vigor of old and the robes rose and fell with the frequency of his gestures. Late Star had changed—as had all things.

  "The sickness came with the white visitors, oh Warrior. Among them, two suffered the puking sickness, and though they only passed among us, spirits of evil leaped from them and our people became sick and fell like grain before the knife.

  "Quickly I sent the people of our fishing village from Aughwick in hope that the spirits would not find them, but for many I was too late." He stopped, studying lines of weary bitterness etched about The Warrior's stern mouth.

  He is like a stone, thought Late Star, though his heart bleeds he gives nothing. Like the oak, he barely bends and the hardest blows go unremarked.

  "Finally the chiefs too acted, and the village flew in a hundred directions. Loudly I warned to avoid other villages until the sick spirits died in the cold, but most raced to relatives and the sickness spread and spread again."

  His brows raised in query, "I am told the sickness touches as far as the Seneca. Is this true, my nephew?"

  Only a nod rewarded him.

  "So, I have taken the medicine rattle, and I perform the healing dances. Rain has gathered the herbs and mixed the potions." He sighed, "Has it helped? I cannot say, for few have lived, and I am not the best at making medicine."

  The Warrior remained unmoving, and almost defensively Late Star continued, "So it was with Pond Lily. Great with her child, she sickened swiftly and our knowledge was too little. She, like our daughter, and the son of my third son we buried beneath stones, for the earth is too hard to open. As you have seen, most others lay where they fell, for we are too few to do what should be done."

  As if from great distance, he heard the words and understood them, but a giant emptiness lay within him. At times he seemed to leave himself to stand aside and see them seated at the fire of Late Star. Only he among them remained unmoving, and he could watch the others' efforts to draw him out, to soothe his hurt. Strange, he could wonder. I, who have seen deaths too many to remember, am wounded beyond feeling by one. I, who strangled Cloud Watcher, am numbed and lessened by her loss. Pond Lily, Pond Lily, he forced himself to think her name, for that was a good suffering.

  He left the fire to wander the almost empty village. Where the smell of woodsmoke should have scented the air, only biting cold remained. No hoots of laughter broke the winter still and those who appeared seemed to skulk on their rounds as though fearful that even an eye greeting could pass the evil to them. And, perhaps it could, for somehow the sickness flowed among the people. Strange it was that Late Star remained untouched during his rattlings and chantings while strong hunters fell and died. Would the evil touch him? His lips tightened and his chest lifted; if The Great Spirit chose that challenge he would accept it as quickly as another; he would fight the sickness as a bitter enemy; he would defeat it with heart and. . . he stopped, struck through by the meaning of it. Clearly it came to him, as though whispered on the wind. A mighty cry of exultation ripped from his throat and within the lodges the survivors heard it and trembled anew for surely even The Warrior had gone mad in this terrible time.

  As clear as the mountains rising around him he saw the reason for his suffering, for his loss, and indeed for his very being. Why he had not understood before could not be explained, for now it was plain before him.

  The Sky Father had opened his eyes and waved aside the clouds that hid his thoughts. Clear now was the great plan and its simplicity explained all that had happened.

  The mystery of his birth was part of it. The selection of great teachers, his growth beyond others, his skills sharper than any known were more. The fighting for his people, the rise and defeat of Cloud Watcher, were all within the plan which flowed like a torrent, unrecognized until now, but as certain in its direction as the finest shot arrow.

  He, called The Warrior, was chosen by The Great Spirit. Tested and tried a thousand times, he would be tried a thousand more, and perhaps a thousand beyond that, for as a hunter was chosen to find meat for his family, or a squaw to bear children, he had been marked to wear wounds, to seek combats, to find honor and to show it to his people.

  For this he had been created and so The Sky Father tested him with ever greater challenges, each of which he would meet; each of which would raise him closer to his Father's place.

  In time he would have done enough, and The Great Spirit would take him and place him closely within the warmth of his circle. He, who would live with little, without a lodge, without a village, would sit within the great circle among the most honored.

  The revelation was his own and he sealed his lips against speaking of it. Such a thing was not to be shared, but within he could revel in its richness and his spirit could glow with its awareness. He could feel its swelling power already suffusing his being, and he had to force its comforts away and return to the world around him.

  In the village street, The Warrior stood as though frozen in death. Late Star saw him, and the people of his lodge mentioned him. Later he peered from his entrance to see the mighty figure still there, as unmoving as a mountain. Late Star could see he was not dead, for his breath smoked in the cold. He supposed it was another of the disciplines his former student had created, but this one he feared could freeze him solid.

  When The Warrior returned to the lodge warmth he appeared unharmed but the distance in his eyes worried Late Star. He smoked over it and once, on impulse, reached across and rattled a gourd in the grim featured face. The dead gave as much response and Late Star pondered a right course.

  Sometimes a hot coal touched to one whose mind drifted brought results; often it did not. Cold water was known to help sometimes, as was a sharp slap. Slap The Warrior? Now that would be a most exhilarating but dangerous thing. Would one slap a dreaming panther or a dozing bear? Interesting comparisons, he thought, and decided to do it.

  He rattled again, almost under The Warrior's nose, to no avail. Behind him Rain sighed in distress, and without further delay he leaned across and swung his open palm smartly toward the black side of The Warrior's painted face. It was a quick slap, without warning, and meant to sting into wakefulness, but it failed to land.

  Almost indolently, the head of The Warrior moved enough for the blow to pass untouched. The thin wrist of Late Star was encircled by a hand that snatched quicker than a snake's strike and closed with a firmness as unyielding as a bear's jaws. The grip was not painful but behind it lay a strength so implacable that its warning rushed to startle the mind of Late Star.

  No longer did the eyes of The Warrior dream. They glittered again with the fearful intensity that gave distress. Yet Late S
tar saw no rage, and indeed the fingers that held him did not grind his bones as they so easily might. Before he could speak, to explain his blow, the words of The Warrior broke the spell and the great hand fell away.

  "Your wish was seen, my uncle, and I understand its meaning." His chin lifted slightly toward the lodge height. "From there, I watched us at this fire, for my thoughts were heavy. I saw your rattles, but could not hear them. It was as though your mind was opened to me and I saw your blow before it began." His mouth moved slightly in unidentifiable response. "Perhaps the blow was wise, my teacher, for I wandered strangely."

  The scalp of Late Star tingled. The experiences The Warrior spoke of were magical and few shared them. Only on special occasions, when he had fasted and perhaps smoked the thin leaves, had he stood outside himself, but never could he have returned at will as had his nephew.

  They spoke of other things and their words were ordinary and soothing to both.

  "Stay with us through the cold time, nephew. There is none to keep your lodge and it is not a time to travel. The sickness still lurks in a thousand corners and we must wait for it to feed upon itself and die."

  The Warrior did not accept nor did he deny, but Late Star was encouraged that he would not uncaringly walk into the winter cold. He sought braver subjects that would turn The Warrior's thoughts.

  "And what of Cloud Watcher, the Chippewa? You have barely spoken of him."

  The Warrior's hand flicked as though at a mosquito, and he seemed about to dismiss Cloud Watcher with few words but then changed his mind.

  "Cloud Watcher is dead, Late Star. I traveled swiftly to the land of the Chippewa and found him alone. I looked into his eyes, but saw only fear. I felt no powers near Cloud Watcher, and I saw no courage within him. The medicine of Cloud Watcher was only in his words, and his voice will be heard no more. The power of The Sky Father was mine and the eyes of Cloud Watcher saw it before his breath departed."