The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 17

  For half a moon's turning Blue Moccasin wandered the Huron villages building ever on the importance of a council between chiefs and The Warrior, who passed like a spirit, unseen except when he wished it. The Huron buzzed with interest and though men scouted far, only a few maidens encountered The Warrior. Their descriptions widened eyes, some in disbelief, others in desire to see for themselves.

  The lands of the Huron were still touched by the Frost Spirit, but this time The Warrior brought no robes—their discovery could prove him false and spoil his plan. During the cold of night he burrowed within leaves and endured. He lived without fire, eating only from his pouch. Three times he found Blue Moccasin between villages and emptied the message-carrier's food pouches.

  A hand of times he chose carefully and made himself known. The acts were not dangerous for he waited until the first fever of scouting had died. Then he returned and spoke with a woman on the north side of her village, so it would appear that he had just passed through. After speaking he quickly hid his trail in the deep forest.

  The first maiden he chose searched for roots beyond a call to others. Sensing a presence she looked up to face a giant painted in terrifying black and white who had appeared almost within arm's reach.

  Frightened, the maiden fell weakly to her knees, expecting death in the demon's grasp. Instead a gentle hand raised her, and the voice vibrant with power and friendship spoke soft words.

  "Do not fear, maiden of the Huron. I, The Warrior, am at peace with you and your people. I pass unseen by others, but I desire a root that you collect." He chose one from her basket and tucked it carefully within his pouch. He placed an immense hand reassuringly on her still bowed head, and a moment later she sensed he was gone.

  Like a frightened fawn the maiden sped to her village to tell of The Warrior's magical appearance. A few men attempted tracking and failed, but the maiden's story spread with a wind's quickness.

  Runners met Blue Moccasin, requesting his presence at their largest village. Though days sooner than planned, Blue could only hope that The Warrior had already gone there and was preparing for his entrance. Because it was not yet time, the message carrier delayed a day, but the runners were impatient and their request was truly a demand. High chiefs gathered to hear the message of Blue Moccasin, and their patience would be short.

  For this appearance, Blue Moccasin insisted that a runner precede them and properly announce his coming. Seasoned and matured, the Huron runners cared little for proclaiming the arrival of a half-Delaware, but it was the right way and great chiefs did assemble. They too would need time to repair their decorations and prepare their reception. When the carrier of messages stopped at a stream to clean his body and renew his paint they waited with courtesy, for it was becoming plainer that words of importance were to be said.

  For three days The Warrior had familiarized himself with the great village. Chiefs of importance had appeared and settled into lodges surrounding a council building of logs and earth. Soon smoke escaped the roof and the chiefs began regular entries and exits. The Warrior could believe the council prepared for Blue Moccasin, and in time, his own arrival. When three runners were dispatched amid much ceremony he judged his time as short and concentrated on his part of the plan.

  When speaking, Blue Moccasin would emphasize his words by small drum taps. It was a clever and familiar way that would not be questioned. When the chiefs were held by his words, Blue would tap a special rhythm. Then, without warning, The Warrior would appear. How this was to be accomplished they could not plan, but the more unexpected his appearance, the more powerful it would be. If he could reach the inner village unseen the Huron would be staggered, for they were surrounded by countless hunters and villagers whose goings and comings would seem to make undetected arrival impossible.

  Reaching close concealment had not been difficult because he moved at night, but entering the village at midday had at first not appeared possible. When he saw the way, it held risk enough to add special appeal, and The Warrior studied it carefully to avoid a simple mistake that could reveal him.

  Within the inner circle of important lodges was a small sweat lodge. It remained unattended and appeared long unused. If he could reach the lodge he might remain within and undiscovered until the signal. With the aid of The Sky Father he might then step forth and appear with only the smallest of warnings.

  To gain the sweat lodge he would enter the village before dawn when sleep was heaviest. Dogs had been driven from the inner village so their barking would not disturb the chiefs. That would help, and once past outlying lodges, he would walk boldly so that any sound would be natural and arouse no suspicions. Within the sweat lodge he would wait and hope that no inquisitive squaw discovered him. He would also hope that Blue Moccasin did not delay his arrival overlong.

  Proudly, Blue Moccasin stood before the assembled chiefs. The leaders of many feathers sat in half circle, not unlike students awaiting their teacher. Men of lesser rank crowded behind the great chiefs but Blue Moccasin did not address them. His words were to the high chiefs, for decisions were theirs. The others only followed. Beside each chief lay ceremonial weapons but they held no threat; a weapon seized during council would be insult without precedent. Like dyed feathers, beads, and quills, the guns and war clubs added dignity and importance to their owners.

  The pipes had been passed and measure of the message teller taken. As the chiefs judged Blue Moccasin, so he appraised them and adjusted his words to their needs. These chiefs of the four Huron nations were men of many winters. If it had happened, they had experienced it, and if it were told, they had heard it. Old men preferred talk to combat and pipe to war cry. Many seasons stiffened joints and blunted the enthusiasms that caused wars. Such men might be reasoned with—if The Sky Father—or the thousand other gods, willed it.

  Blue Moccasin tapped lightly his finger drum and began. He chose to almost sing his words, allowing their flow to lull the listeners and bring them within the spell of his tale.

  He told of The Warrior who fought as no other could, but who so loved the people of The Sky Father that he had been granted the task of traveling across the six nations of the Iroquois to pass around the great lake, and to enter in peace the lands of the proud and honored Huron.

  He told that many believed that The Warrior was fathered by The Sky Father, for there were no others like him. This the honored Huron would see for themselves when The Warrior chose to appear among them.

  He spoke of The Warrior's ability to pass unseen where others could not, to draw bows others could not bend, and to travel in winter without robes. These things too the chiefs might see when The Warrior appeared.

  The chiefs listened, although they had heard much of it from their own runners. Neither doubt nor particular interest showed on their faces for great claims were common and messengers were known to speak with imagination. This time Blue Moccasin did not repeat The Warrior's mission among the Huron for the chiefs surely knew it, and his words might weaken those chosen by The Warrior.

  Finally it was time. He had drawn the picture and prepared the listeners. He tapped the special rhythm and sent prayers to all the gods about whom he had read that somehow, The Warrior could enter at least the village without detection. That feat alone would astound the Huron.

  Without warning the entrance flap swept aside as though gripped by a whirlwind. Even the eyes of Blue Moccasin started as the light was blotted by a figure mighty in size and magnificent in proportion. The chiefs and all behind sat as if rooted and the words of Blue Moccasin sang powerfully in the silence.

  "He comes! Behold, The Warrior!"

  For all of their lives those who saw told it—and in its telling, the tale grew and was purified, but none could fully portray the shock, the astonishment, and the awe created by the magical appearance. Without, no alarm was raised, and it was as though The Warrior truly had moved unseen through the heart of the Huron nation.

  A cold menace hung about the giant figure whose painted
head disguised expression. The glint of tomahawks at the muscle-ridged waist belied the open palm raised in peace, and a glitter of barely contained ferocity stung the nerves of all assembled.

  Like a giant cat The Warrior moved to the speaking place and in the continuing silence began.

  "I am The Warrior of whom Blue Moccasin has spoken."

  "I come in peace to council with the honored chiefs of the Huron. "

  "I come to speak of a greater peace, a peace that can bring honor and happiness to our nations."

  Almost magically the two iron tomahawks appeared within the immense hands, but before fear could rise The Warrior laid them aside and his listeners felt safer.

  The voice of The Warrior was deep and vibrant with strength. It rang with sincerity, and its message was as straight as the finest arrow. Here spoke no skilled messenger or cunning councilor. These were words of honor by one who fought the enemies of his people. One who dared challenge ways that had been since Huron and Iroquois had faced across the great lake. They were words worth hearing.

  "For all of our times, fishermen have watched the waters for enemy raiders. Yet our nations are not at war. For just as long, peaceful lodges have been destroyed, women left wailing, and children made hungry and without fathers, but our nations are not at war. Each time, revenge is sought and vengeance for that revenge. None can recall a beginning, none can know who was first, but we are not at war."

  The Warrior paced as he spoke, fluid in motion, the roll of corded muscles giving emphasis to his words, and most were deep in listening. Only Eel Eye of the Martin Clan did not hear. Only the mind of Eel Eye grew other thoughts.

  From the lake edge had come the Eel Eye. From a village where some had died beneath Iroquois clubs and others had perished in return raids. Eel Eye heard no words of peace. Mighty indeed stood the Iroquois called The Warrior and mightier would be he who took his life.

  In council, no weapon could be raised, but no safe passage had been granted The Warrior. He had appeared and begun without courtesies or pipe smoking. No meat had been shared and, unless chiefs granted travel and sent men to accompany The Warrior, he, Eel Eye planned to be first with his weapon. Unobtrusively his fist closed about his hatchet of sharpened flint. Ignoring the voices of council, he imagining how swiftly he would strike.

  The words of The Warrior required long questioning and many considerations. Powerful things were not quickly enacted, and a peace council of great nations would require seasons to arrange.

  Honor, pride, and dignities would be as important as safety and comforts. An entire village of peace councilors, makers of medicine, and runners might be needed. The thoughts were stirring and the preparations could be as memorable as the great council itself. The Warrior could point the way and encourage the leaders to examine the path, but thereafter, a hundred runners would travel, and words like swarms of bees would be exchanged before a single chief gave nod or headshake.

  When they tired, the chiefs thanked The Warrior with dignified ritual courtesies. As one they rose from their places, to leave formality behind, to stretch and breathe in through noses the crisp air of spring beyond the closeness of the lodge. Now friendly words would be spoken and thoughts could be readily exchanged. Men could ask how The Warrior had appeared without alerting the village. They could ask how he could travel clad only in loincloth and moccasins. Old campaigns could be discussed and Iroquois of known names could be asked about. As much might be resolved here as in the formal counciling where traditions ruled.

  The hatchet of Eel Eye was mostly ceremonial. Light in weight, it would lack the impact of a war hatchet, but its blade was sharp, and although a man small in stature, Eel Eye would strike powerfully.

  With seeming casualness he drifted through the powerful chiefs who were still turning toward The Warrior. When only a single chief stood between The Warrior and his hatchet, Eel Eye gathered himself to strike. Wildly his heart pounded and his hand became slippery with sweat. His vision distorted and he was suddenly weak of limb, but the opportunity was great and he forced himself forward.

  The intended victory screech of Eel Eye was little more than a child's squawk, but it accompanied his leap and turned eyes to him. With desperate urgency he swung his hatchet at the great figure and felt the shock of the blow run up his arm. Realization that he had aimed poorly swept him, but it would not matter for the hatchet had struck solidly and would be enough.

  A new screech of triumph grew in his lungs just as his hatchet fist was enclosed within bear jaws. Agony wrenched through him clearing his eyes, but turning his screech into an involuntary squall of pain. Before him stood The Warrior, eyes of death biting to the soul of Eel Eye. A great wound poured blood from the giant's chest where the hatchet had struck, but the Iroquois did not fall. The pain that wracked Eel Eye was a single mighty hand that gripped his, grinding his bones as easily as they would a rotten gourd.

  Voices burst around him but the words were lost to the pain of tortured bones. Close to The Warrior's bitter eyes he was drawn until his nose nearly touched the wound he had caused. The soul of Eel Eye surrendered and died before the terrible gaze. Dreams of victory were gone, but failure did not intrude. Only a fear, stark and primal, enveloped him and without knowledge he fouled cloth and leggings.

  Then he was held at arm's length and moved without resistance to where an outside fire smoldered. The voices dimly heard offered no hope and only vaguely seen figures drifted beyond The Warrior's all-encompassing presence.

  The Warrior chose a smoldering brand and whipped it through the air until it glowed with fire heat. Again The Eel was drawn close to the wound and with disbelieving horror he saw the burning brand thrust within the wound where it hissed while smoke mixed with the odor of searing flesh.

  Even the agony of his crushed hand fled before the sight and though Eel Eye knew it not, the many voices too stilled as one. For a seeming lifetime the brand searched within the wound until bleeding ceased and the gash appeared as a great burn. Then The Warrior flung the brand away and, holding Eel Eye immobile with pain, he spoke to the Hurons who stood frozen in awe.

  The voice of The Warrior was not reedy with pain nor did it howl with rage. Bitter and cold with disdain were its tones. Like knives they cut to the souls of the Huron chiefs. Like hide cleaners they scraped across pride and bit deeply into cherished honor.

  "In peace we have spoken, my brothers, the Huron. With honor we have reasoned, and with hope we left this great council. Yet among you I find this!" A tightened grip brought Eel Eye to his knees gasping with renewed pain as his bones ground.

  "Can this be the way of the mighty Huron, known by all the people for their wise counsel and honor in all things?"

  The Hurons heard, their minds numbed by what they had seen. Shocked by the attack from among them, they had been slow to act. When The Warrior seized the brand each had believed it would be thrust into the face and eyes of the despicable Eel Eye who had disgraced them and, as one, they believed it right.

  With disbelief they saw The Warrior enter the fire into his own wound until bleeding ceased. They saw the sweat of incredible pain burst on his great body and they saw the smoke of burning flesh rise into the nose of Eel Eye.

  No sounds left the grim mouth of The Warrior and the rocklike features did not change. Without tremor the muscled arm held the brand in place and moved it as needed. When he removed it a sigh like the wind swept the assembled chiefs, for never had such a thing been seen. None imagined that he too could have done the same, and like the sun itself the heart of The Warrior shone for them.

  The Warrior's few words seared the proud Huron, but they had no swift answers. Then The Warrior returned their pride and sealed among them the certainty that they would council and search for peace as brothers and wise children of The Sky Father.

  "The Warrior knows that one such as this is not truly of the Huron." The agonized Eel Eye was pressed even lower.

  "Within any people lurk these without honor; these who
seek only for themselves; these who raid others without reason; these who foul the spirit of their nation.

  "These we will weed out and cast aside." Eel Eye's moans emphasized his words.

  "We who hold honor high, we who serve our people will council as brothers and bring safety to our people of the lake. Is it not so, mighty chieftains of the honored Huron?"

  Brave was the shout of agreement and many were the raising of arms, but The Warrior silenced them.

  "Among my people I will await the runners of our brothers, the Huron. Honor my words, great chiefs, and send them quickly that we may soon again council together in the service of our nations."

  The eyes of The Warrior fell away until they lay upon the cringing Eel Eye. Like a straw the offending hatchet was plucked from the broken hand and tossed aside. Without emotion The Warrior's other hand closed about the one holding Eel Eye. Muscles bulged in concentrated effort and the scream of Eel Eye almost hid the crunching of his hand bones. Like a useless thing The Warrior released him and Eel Eye collapsed, perhaps unconscious, clutching his shapeless hand to his belly.

  The effort had restarted bleeding from The Warrior's chest, but he ignored it. He raised an empty palm to those present, including Blue Moccasin, and passed from view between lodges. Dogs barked near the village before the chiefs regained their voices.

  A few kicked the Eel's sprawled body but most ignored it. The discussions gained excitement as tensions departed and comparisons of what they had seen flew among them.

  As stunned as the Hurons by the raw courage of The Warrior's deed, Blue Moccasin fought to clear his thinking. His thoughts were specially welcome at this time and he spun quickly remembered stories of other accomplishments somehow made possible by the mighty warrior—said by many to be the earthly son of The Great Spirit.

  When the talk dwindled, Blue Moccasin was able to hold them still longer, for some would surely send scouts to follow The Warrior and study his ways. Sorely wounded, even The Warrior would need a long lead. The message speaker saw that he gained it.