BLACK KETTLE, RUNNING Part 2

By Bill Sheehan 11/17/2024  

CHAPTER 8: The Gauntlet

After being pushed into the center of the village for the villagers’ entertainment and my humiliation, I was tied with my back to pole which was much taller than I was. My arms were pulled back and my wrists tied around the opposite side of the pole which was anchored deeply into the hard-packed ground.

I was given water, but no food. Then the black kettle was placed over my head, as I had experienced before. But there was far more laughter and it was much louder this time. I heard pinging sounds, then children’s laughter. They must be throwing pebbles at the kettle, I thought. Many of the pebbles missed the kettle and hit me in the chest, but they were pebbles, not rocks. When I looked down at my feet, there was not only pebbles but nuts and hard, unripe berries. Then the villagers all became quiet. Now nothing was being thrown at the kettle. An ominous silence threatened to strangle me.

“He slave. Him Black Kettle,” Bloody Hands shouted sarcastically. “White boy with black kettle head.”

Bloody Hands pulled out his tomahawk and banged it on the kettle, making the villagers’ laughter increase. When he banged the kettle twice more, charred black flecks sprinkled to the ground, which was the only view that I had. I tried to push my head out of the kettle by snapping my head back and forth. All that did was send the metal banging against my skull. I was glad then, that the kettle was brass, not iron. The villagers started shouting but I had no idea what it meant.

“As I dreaded, the noise of objects hitting the kettle got louder. Stones were being thrown now, but too many were hitting my chest, stomach, and groin to think that was just a coincidence. The frequency increased. It wasn’t only the village youths that were throwing stones, perhaps the girls and women, too. I heard a voice cheering them on. It was Swift Arrow’s yelling. It didn’t take much thought to know that either Swift Arrow was throwing stones at my body and not the kettle, or he was encouraging others to hit soft, vulnerable areas of my body. The kettle protected my head so after the initial banging got boring, the targets got lower. The stones that were now hitting my body the hardest, I guessed, were those thrown by Swift Arrow and the teenagers. Soon I was bombarded with the sounds of larger objects banging off the kettle that must have been rocks. I started feeling the painful thumps as the larger rocks stung my chest, stomach legs. To deny my groin as a target, I lifted my left leg so the knee crossed over to touch my right thigh. That protected my groin from severe damage.

“More creative youths ran up to me, striking my bare chest with thorny plants, perhaps thistle, and dried branches. The way the objects scratched and tore across my skin in cutting feeling let me know that knives were not being used. I wondered why, but was thankful for them not being used, yet.

          “The stinging sensation would grow more intense,” I thought, “as soon as my salty sweat seeps into the open wounds.”

“Now I could feel the slow rivulets of blood as they lazily ran

their serpentine courses down my bare chest and stomach. I grimaced at the pain and was glad the kettle concealed my facial discomfort.

“Stupid,” I chastised myself for not thinking fast enough. I bent my chin as close to my chest as I could until the rim of the kettle was pressed against my upper chest and stomach areas. If my waist hadn’t been tied to the pole so tightly I could have made fools of them by squatting with the kettle between my knees. My head, arms, stomach, groin, and most of my legs and hips would have been protected in that position. My back would have been entirely exposed but with my back being horizontal to the rock throwers and the rocks being thrown horizontally, my back would have seldom been hit, grazed maybe, but not directly hit. Now I got some needed relief as the rocks banged off the kettle instead of pounding into my chest and stomach, though now my legs became the main targets.

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“I don’t like that part, Da,” Lily said with a sad expression.

“You never like that part,” I grinned. “How do you think I felt?” I grinned at Lily, as Slone caught my attention.

“What’s a ‘grow-in’ area, Da?” Slone asked, seriously

“Where your ‘private parts are.”

Lily elbowed Slone and shouted, “Shut up!”

“I just wanted to know, so you shut up!”

All three of us laughed in unison, then Slone explained, “Lily, Da was their enemy. They were trying to hurt him and couldn’t hit his head, chest and stomach any longer, so they aimed for a different place.

“Slone’s right, Princess — sometimes Da called Lily his princess. “People are not usually kind towards their enemies. My treatment seems cruel to you because we think differently and grew up differently than Indian kids do. What we see as cruelty, to the Indians see it as the natural thing to do to an enemy. It’s normal behavior to them. Now, may I continue?”

They said nothing, but simply focused intently on me.

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 They now listened with the thrill of anticipation, especially because there were always new bits of information that I had not remembered — or slightly embellished — in the earlier telling of the story.

I continued.

“This punishment only stopped when the youths got bored, especially since I remained silent and would not please them with my groans of pain or any begging. I grimaced many times, even clenched my teeth as I silently bore the pain. I waited for them to bet bored, then stop.”

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I paused the story, purposely avoiding telling them that the punishment I was experiencing, so far, anyway, was nearly harmless compared to most of the Iroquois torture techniques that I had heard stories about. Punishment, humiliation, and cruel tests of courage would precede my torture was my assumption. The stone and rock throwing and the targeting of my groin were the punishment and humiliation. The test of courage, the gauntlet had yet to come.

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“I thought about the night before and early morning. I had forced myself to stand against the pole throughout the entire nighttime ordeal, though, at times, my knees felt as if they would buckle and force me to the ground. My feet were not tied so I could move them away from the pole, then I locked my knees into a straight and stiff position. I was thankful that my feet were not tied to the pole. It surprised me that Swift Arrow didn’t complain about it. With my back against the pole, remaining standing was easier. Thinking of myself being on my knees in front of the entire village was too embarrassing, humiliating. I knew that’s what they wanted to see, so I deprived them of seeing it. This action would also serve as a form of defiance and a show of courage.

“Hours later the kettle was removed, and I was given sips of water by an ancient-looking woman whose age wrinkles were so deep that they could have hidden the tip of a kernel of corn. Her moist eyes bored into me with such probing intensity that I developed a headache behind my squinting eyes. Temporarily, I looked away. No food was offered. No words were spoken. She didn’t simply look at me, she seemed to be studying me. I wondered what the scary witch was thinking. I use the word ‘witch’ because out of nowhere blackness landed on her shoulder. A raven? I blinked, then shook my head to clear my disbelieving eyes. When I looked again, the large, black raven was still there. I looked around me and saw that no one was startled by the raven but me. Were the people used to it, or was I the only one to see it? As the old woman continued to walk away, the raven turned its head to look at me. I was stunned when I thought the raven said, “White boy see.”

Her face appeared like dried and aged leather, adding to her piercing stare of tough determination and fearlessness. Her wrinkles were more like fissures pressed deeply into her brown skin. Her eyelids drooped lazily and loose skin hung below her chin to her neck. Her lips showed no trace of smile wrinkles, as if her lips were created with the horizontal slash of a knife. The outside corners of her eyes looked as if they were imprinted with raven’s feet (years later my mom told me that those lines were called ‘crow’s feet’). Her knuckles and fingers were like gnarled branches from a dead tree. Her knuckles also looked swollen, the fingernails were short and ragged, as if bitten or torn frequently. All the warriors had so much dirt under their fingernails they could have planted corn in it. The contrast with her clean clothes and her hair groomed contrasted significantly with the warriors’ dirtiness and unkept appearance. Later I noticed many of the warriors washing in the river which turned out to be how the entire village took a bath when they chose to do it.

I also noticed that there was an obvious respect, and a hidden fear of offending the old lady in any way.

Her hair was white with many pewter colored strands. Her salt and pewter colored hair was so fine in texture that it hung loosely at the top portion, which wasn’t braided. It floated lightly in the air as she walked. The braided portion of her hair hung down the middle of her back and was decorated with oiled raven feathers that shined whenever a ray of sunlight hit them. Her upper tunic was made of soft deer leather and highly decorated with beads and shells, but the lower portion had painted pictures of ravens, wolves and occasionally ravens riding on the backs of wolves. She walked around me slowly, examining me as would a person wanting to buy a horse. I thought she was going to ask me to open my mouth so she could check my teeth.

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“Summer would be over in four to six weeks, though, with no calendar it was difficult to keep track of the number of days gone by. The days were already a little cooler, but that didn’t affect the nights yet because the village was close to a huge lake (Many decades later it was given the name, Erie Lake.) where the water retained the days heat, then released it to the inland night breezes that minimally heated the village.

“I was left tied to the pole, no food, and ignored except for the removal of the kettle.  I felt, at times, that I was being watched. I thought it might be that old and odd woman, but I couldn’t see her anywhere. I felt her presence as the image of a raven appeared in my dark thoughts. The vision was so strong that I looked all around me, yet there was no sign of her or a raven. When a twig fell into my hair, I looked up. There at the top of the pole stood a raven looking down at me. It wasn’t a twig that fell into my hair. The damn thing had pooped on me.”

The kids giggles and patted each other on their backs.

“As the community fires died, the villagers retreated to their clan longhouse where fires were kept going until bedtime. I bent my knees with glorious relief and slid down the pole into a sitting position. My feet ached. My leather boots had worn out before the long trip ended. I was given moccasins and I felt every rock, root, rut, nut and fallen branch along the way because of the thinness of the soles. My feet were bruised, swollen painfully and throbbing to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

“I bent my knees so I could rest my head onto my kneecaps. I was extremely sore, and exhaustion commanded my body. I slept off and on all night with my hands tied behind the pole. When early morning grew cooler, I pressed my chest against my thighs to maintain more warmth. I looked longingly at the longhouses, wishing I were inside sheltered and in a bed with blankets. I thought of my family in their beds covered with heat trapping blankets. They had food, comfort, and shelter. Then I realized that this kind of thinking, at this time, was the weakness of self-pity which I could not afford to let linger. It was dangerous to show signs of weakness and self-pity would be involuntarily demonstrated with my facial expressions, the tone and loudness of my voice and certainly by my begging or pleading actions. Now I was the one who needed to be stoic. Show as little feeling as possible.

“Suddenly, from behind, I was splashed with water. My hair, neck, and upper body were soaked, immediately, then, as the water worked its way downward, my lower clothes and body got drenched, too. There was a mild breeze, not cold, but when it blew across my wet body, the water evaporated, and I became chilled. Shivering came quickly.

“I heard a fading giggle and soft footsteps as the person disappeared into the darkness. I didn’t see him but didn’t have trouble figuring out who did it. Swift Arrow showing his meanness, a meanness learned from his father’s examples. That meanness must have served Bloody Hands well in combat, unfortunately it carried over into his social life and brought fear to most of the villagers. But then, a contrary thought. Gray Cloud, an adopted white child had grown to adulthood in the tribe, became a warrior and was second in command to Bloody Hands. How could that be? How does he have a good relationship with Bloody Hands? Bloody Hands must trust him. The other warriors obeyed him. He could pull Swift Arrow out of the line and reprimand him in front of all the others and not worry about what Bloody Hands might think or do. Their relationship puzzled me.

“As I sat in a puddle of muddy water I wondered if I could survive the night, I was shivering, my skin turning a goose-bumpy blue, though I could not see well in the dark. The air evaporating the water had cooled me.

“Somehow, I dozed and dreamed. I dreamed that I was being clothed by a black-feathered angel, then the angel’s wings enfolded me like a blanket, and I felt its welcomed and wonderful warmth. My mind succumbed to an intoxicating delirium. Suddenly I was startled awake by a kick to my knee. The pain woke me immediately, though I was still sleepy and disoriented. I vigorously shook my head, forcing myself to be alert in a couple of seconds. Swift Arrow stood there looking down at me. He was sadistically grinning, and in his eyes I could see that he wanted to do much more harm than a simple kick to my sitting body.

“Swift Arrow became furious when he saw that, during that night, someone had covered me with a blanket. I hadn’t been aware of it myself. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it away with a violent snap, leaving my warm body exposed to the chilly morning air. I looked around the village with the hope of finding the sympathizer who supplied the blanket. I saw no one who looked like they might have done it. I wondered if it was the old woman.

“Fires were being built inside the longhouses as wispy columns of grayish smoke floated out of the many smoke holes in the dome-roof structures. Each family made its own fires directly under smoke hole. The longhouses were homes for many families.

“Swift Arrow kicked my arm as I was attempting to stand. I started to stand, again, and I did it quickly, knowing that while standing I could possibly block further kicks by using my legs. I faltered, then stood erect. I searched around the village, again looking for any hint of who may have helped me by providing the blanket during the night. I saw no candidates. My next thought was that I may be able to figure it out when the owner came for the blanket. It lay a few feet away, where it had been thrown. But no one came for it.

“The cool morning air cleared my mind. I stared at the brightness on the eastern horizon. It gave me a sense of hope. Soon I would feel the sun’s warmth and be rescued from the chill. I heard a buzzing sound like a swarm of bees. All along Swift Arrow had been yelling at me and I didn’t notice his screaming. He walked away, his body shacking with anger.

“The aroma of food wafted its way to me causing a splash of anticipatory saliva to coat my mouth, followed by the churning of my stomach. I wondered if I’d be fed today, or if it would be another day for me to provide entertainment by starving.

“To my surprise, my wrists were freed from behind the pole and two guards ordered me to sit. My butt already ached from sitting most of the night on the cold ground, then in the mud but it would be better to sit than be knocked down. I sat and was rewarded with a bowl of hot corn porridge. The woman who provided it set it down at my feet, said nothing, and walked away. The porridge was made of pulverized, powdered, and dried corn kernels with added herbs, berries, and nuts tasted great. I was hungry enough to lift the bowl to my mouth and scoop the thick food into my mouth. Soon, the hungry stomach monsters stopped thrashing, relaxed the stomach muscle knots, and made peace with each other. Then there came a wave-like motion inside my stomach which seemed to be saying, “More. More.”

I looked suspiciously at the same old woman who brought me water, the one who now had two raven feathers in her white hair. At that time, I didn’t know what the significance of the raven feathers was to her or the tribe. I smiled at her, glad the water didn’t end up all over my head, as Swift Arrow had done. There was no return smile from her.

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“I forgot, Da. What did you say the food tasted like?” asked Lily.

Slone smiled; both children waited for my weird sense of humor.

“I don’t believe I said exactly how it tasted, but if you’re interested, it tasted like corn oatmeal with the added flavor coming from fish guts and juicy fish eyeballs. I enjoyed the popping sound when I chewed the eyeballs. I couldn’t tell where the eyeballs were buried in the corn meal, but I like surprises. The only thing I didn’t like was when some eyeballs floated to the top of the corn meal and stared at me. It wasn’t easy to eat when the food is looking back at you, especially when you chew and the eyeball juice sprays out of your mouth.”

Keeping strictly to the truth wasn’t as interesting to them as funny exaggerations. They’d never seen the scars on my back from the whippings and clubbings until one unusually sizzling-hot summer day when I went swimming with them at the pond. They saw the scars and were shocked that I had never mentioned them. I told them that they weren’t something I wanted to talk about. For further swimming trips, I wore and old shirt with the sleeves cut off.

It was always rewarding to see Slone and Lily laugh, even when I’d told the story quite a few times as they were growing up. While they laughed, I paused to enter the cabin for a drink of water to ease my parched mouth and throat. I brought a mug of water back with me to have later in the story. While in the cabin I looked at Nana and Mara pretending to knit something, while their heads bowed downward looking at the work close to their laps. Sitting close to the door, it was obvious they were not there to sew, but to listen. As I passed them, I whispered, “Weren’t you both at the same place knitting, yesterday?”

Lily and Slone were still giggling, but the previous, boisterous laughter had gotten more quiet. When I sat down again, they looked pleased about my gross humor about the corn porridge. When they asked why the story changed a little each time I explained that I may have remembered more of it or had forgotten some of it. Then I winked at them to let them know that I used my imagination, sometimes for humor, but they knew that the story was mostly true. They also knew that there were parts of the story that I did not tell true, with parts of the story that Nana’s and Mara’s had given me strict orders not to mention. Those parts were exceptionally violent, cruel, and bloody, mainly having to do with the torture of white captives and some things having to do with the evil spirit (ghosts) world. If I thought something wouldn’t please them Nana and Mara, I wasn’t supposed tell those parts. This was one of those rules that I agreed with.

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I heard the cabin door close and, since they’d been caught listening, they abandoned it. Seeing the cabin door close, I took advantage and whispered, “The ass-end of the fish was in the food. I know because the food smelled and looked like thick, fart-porridge. It smelled like a Slone fart.”

Slone’s face flushed and his nostrils flared with pride as he sniffed the air, then got poked by his sister who was often just as guilty as her brother when it came to farting.

The kids and I laughed while holding our hands over our mouths to muffle the sound, not wanting to attract the attention of those who are much more holy than I was.

I continued to whisper, “Have I ever told you that Nana used to pester me about going to church? I asked her, “Why go to church? Isn’t God everywhere? If you wanted to, you could pray while in the outhouse. What a service that would be.”

Quickly, I said, “Shhh,” to indicate ‘quiet, because I knew Nana and Mara wouldn’t want me talking to the kids that way. The women acted as if it was a mortal sin for me to act so devilishly. They didn’t know that a long time ago Nana didn’t mind it so much.

“Is the ‘gonelent’ coming next,” inquired Slone.

“Yeah, it’s coming, but the word is gauntlet. I spelled it for him, then said, “The first part rhymes with the word haunt, as in the sentence, ‘The ghost will haunt you.’ The second part of the word is, ‘let,’ as in the sentence, ‘Let him into the house.’ OK. I know. That sounds too much like a school lesson, so I’ll continue the story.”

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“Listen. Pay attention.” They looked up at me. “This part of the story is true, though I’ve never told you. It’s awful, scary, but it is important to understanding a further event in the story. This is usually the wrong thing to do, but I need you to keep it a secret because your mom would be mad at me. It is one of the Indian tortures I heard about but, gladly, did not see.

“The next morning, I was awakened with a kick in the leg. When I didn’t get up fast enough, I was grabbed by the hair and then was pushed to the far end of a longhouse where I was violently shoved through an animal-hide, covered doorway.

          “Inside, sitting cross-legged on the ground by a small fire, was that old woman with a stern expression. She pointed to the ground on the opposite side of the fire pit, indicating that I should sit there. I thought, she’s a scary, old witch, her raven feathers dancing to the tune of her every head gesture. “You white boy. You hear me.” I was surprised that she could speak rudimentary English. We didn’t have a conversation. I was there to listen, not talk. She said, “True. Happen true. You listen me.” She began telling me a true story in her broken English. A story to give me incentive and motivation. It scared me so much, I trembled through the second half of it.

She began, “Last flower season, (spring) Bloody Hands capture white trapper. Bring here. Trapper run for life. Gauntlet. Trapper no finish line. He stopped. Death if no finish. Hands tie in back. Two ropes fall both sides of bones (she pointed at my hip bones) to ground. Feet tied. More rope tie on feet. Rope throw over branch. White man pulled up to branch, so head be knee-high off ground. Bloody Hands make fire under white man head. Hair, scalp soon burn off as man scream. He try wiggle. Try swing out of fire flames. No can do. Two warriors hold rope where belt go to stop him. No can move away fire. Hair, skin burn off, then head bone get hot. It cook over fire. Screams make happy for warriors. Soon white man no scream. Boil water in head. Water bubble from face; eyes, ears, nose, mouth (she pointed at my face). Head cook. He die bad. He cut down, drag away, cut to pieces. Throw away parts for animals.

Then Bloody Hands cut meat from backside,” (She patted her buttocks), “and cook over same fire. Happy faces warriors cook, eat meat. Blood drip down faces. Warriors think eat white man meat make-um more strong, brave.” She raised her voice, black eyes boring into mine. “You listen me boy! You run fast! You feel pain!  No stop. You finish so no get torture kill! No cook white boy!” She waved at me to leave by pointing to the animal-hide door flap. My buttocks were stuck to the ground. That’s what I thought because I could not get up.

At mid-morning I noticed that the village’s old men, women, and children, were forming two long, parallel lines for what I had heard stories about, the gauntlet. I got up unsteadily and was escorted to the starting line by two warriors.

I tried to calm myself, though I felt as if I were boiling with terror. I could feel energy building up in my body. Fear was the source. Fear for my life, for my survival. I should not be calm, I told myself. I should be scared, terrorized. I felt the energy, though it was with dread. I closed my eyes and imagined myself speeding down the gauntlet path. I prepared to accept the injury and brutality of the punishing run. I prepared for being beaten with sticks, clubs, sharpened saplings, switches, stones, and fists. To succeed made me acceptable for adoption. I repeated to myself, “To fail resulted in death by torture.” Adult males and apprentice warriors could not participate due to my youthful age, but preteen boys and girls where there, as well as a few old people who looked at me fiercely with drooping heads and eyes that looked upward with portions of them disappearing under the upper eyelids. There was no mercy in any of those faces. Some of the women looked tougher than the warriors. Their only desire now was wanting to prevent me from reaching the end of the gauntlet. Their faces were red with joy and rage. They looked forward to this entertainment. I was now the symbol of all white men who were stealing their land and killing their people. The only good thing about the gauntlet was that Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow could not participate. Even then, the old lady told me, it was a rare occurrence for anyone to reach the finish line.

The two guards cut off my clothes, so I was standing naked at the beginning of the gauntlet where I could see two parallel lines of contorted and hateful faces on both sides of me. Every one of them moving, not nervously, but moving in anticipation of beating the crap out of me to prevent me from making it to the end of the gauntlet. Most of them carried branches, sapling switches, stones, rocks. The empty handed ones planned to punch and kick was my guess.

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“You were naked in front of the women and girls?” Lily asked as she stared at Slone, then laughed.

“Yeah! And how would you feel standing naked in front of a lot of boys,” Slone responded, looking irritated.

Lily reacted, “eeh-yooooo. Don’t be gross. No outhouse questions. Please.”

“The cabin door opened a crack. “Enough ‘naked’ talk,” Mara commented. Then, “Dad, please skip any naked parts to the story from now on. The children enjoy it too much.

“Yes, of course, my sweet daughter. It amazes me how nice you and your mom look today.” I attempted to smooth-talk her with charm, but ‘charm’ had vanished for the day.

“OK. OK. I’ll get back to the story.”

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“At the gauntlet starting line I took everyone by surprise by starting to run prematurely. I had no better choice than to do what Boone did to the Shawnee Indians who captured him.”

My obsessive thought as I ran was, “Remember Boone,” as I staggered over a leg that was meant to trip me. After balancing myself, I was disoriented by a blow to the head; a club or stone, I did not know. Then a sharp object pierced my side.

A young male teenager raised a long pole preparing to strike, but before he could bring the pole downward, I kicked his knee. As the youngster collapsed and the pole was falling to the ground, I grabbed it in mid-air.

This event had stopped my progress. The consequence of this was that I was stationary while being thrashed, whipped, and pounded mercilessly.

The screaming all around me roared in my ears like the deafening roar of a giant waterfall. I felt my balance becoming unsteady.

“You stop, you die,” Raven Feathers had said to me.

“Did the Shawnee do that to Boone?” I wondered. I cursed vigorously, spraying bloody saliva from my mouth.

A club stuck me in the shoulder. As I looked up, I saw another club rise. My actions were now more instinctive than deliberate. I was amazed to see my pole act like a spear and jab hard into the club holders solar plexus, doubling him over, gasping for breath.

No time to gloat as the stinging bite of a sapling whipped across my back, then my buttocks. I could feel rivulets of blood racing over my skin to get to the ground. The blood spreading down my forehead, into my eyes, blurring my reddish vision which resulted in some wild swings of the pole until I swiftly brushed the blood away while feeling the sting of sweat in my plentiful injuries.

Furiously I poked, stabbed, and smashed with my pole knowing that I would be hitting women and children. I was in pain, feeling defeated and desperate to survive the gauntlet. At that point in the gauntlet, I was without any reservations about who I was hitting.

A woman stepped in front of me and came at me with a rock that filled her hand. As she raised it, I struck her in the nose, hearing it break. Then I swung hard at her hand. She dropped the rock as I pushed by her, running.

The pole was lighter now and I groggily wondered how that could be. Then I realized that my pole had broken, leaving only half of it in my hand. I could still use as a lightweight club, I thought.

I saw the line was no longer growing longer and that I was close to the end. Though I felt defenseless, my arms and legs about to quit working, and exhaustion tearing my lungs apart, I staggered desperately towards the end of the gauntlet which was starting to disappear from my peripheral vision.

My eyelids were swelling. Soon I’d be blind. One ear was torn, and I thought I had a broken nose. Cuts and abrasions were covering my naked skin. My upper body had taken a tremendous beating. I staggered against the pain of the continuing attacks as I desperately approached the finish line.

My ribs were battered painfully, and my fingers looked bent and distorted. A couple fingers pointed in the wrong direction. Broken I thought, after having used my arms and hands to protect my face as much as possible.

I staggered against the pain of the continuing attacks as I came to the end of the gauntlet. My semi-delusional smile anticipating relief. But then I saw that the end of the gauntlet was blocked.

“What the hell is it,” I mumbled. “Got to get passed it. Got to finish. Move. Move, dammit! I yelled at myself.

Then I thought I heard a familiar voice. “You no go more,” was bellowed at me.

Swift Arrow shouted it again as he blocked the end of the gauntlet so that I had to go by him to reach the end.

I nearly collapsed. My brain felt as if it was shrinking. Sounds were heard as echoes in my empty skull. I was at the end of the gauntlet with little mental and physical strength remaining. I swayed unsteadily as I peered at Swift Arrow’s smiling face.

I could see that I was only a few steps away from finishing. No longer was anyone striking me. All eyes were on me and Swift Arrow.

A bright flash caught my attention. I looked at Swift Arrow’s hands and saw the reflection off his knife.

“You come, Black Kettle. Is good day to die,” Swift Arrow taunted me.

          I seethed with the courage of a crazy person. Calling forth unknown reserves of energy and rage, I stood erect from my bowed posture, my bloody and swollen face unrecognizable as I howled like a wolf full of blood-curdling fury.

We would come together as if we were flint and steel igniting opposing, fiery rages in both of us. But I had not left but a bluff, so I stood erect as if I were willing and able to clash with him. I added a confident smile.

Taken by surprise by my look of boldness, Swift Arrow had not expected me to come at him. I was steady, not fast, just stagger forward not taking my eyes off him, not removing my smile but growling as a wolf might do when in danger. My howling caused him to twitch his lips, his eyes winked a few times as if from a nervous tic. My repeated howling was intimidating to him. Did he just now realize he had no help from his father. He was on his own, in a fight where he was the usual bully relying on his father reputation? Be a wolf, Raven Feathers had said.

Swift Arrow raised his knife and froze in that position as he saw me floating in front of him. Floating feet first. I can’t account for the required energy, but I had jumped into the air, parallel to the ground, and plunged my heels into the head and chest of Swift Arrow. I heard a mountain man once say that’s the way he defeated an Indian warrior in a fight to the death. A surprise attack to catch your opponent off guard.

Both our bodies fell to the ground. Temporarily, neither of us moved. The villagers stood, as if frozen, shocked by what they had just seen. Swift Arrow’s body moved sluggishly, groaning noises escaping his bloody mouth. Slowly I rose from the ground, limped to Swift Arrow, and picked up his knife. I stepped over Swift Arrow, one leg on each side of his waist, the knife held in a downward stabbing position. I dropped to my knees letting my butt fall heavy onto his stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. Kill was my only thought, so I screamed it. “Kill! Kill!” I repeated as I held his neck to the ground with my left hand and raised the knife in my right hand to its full height, aiming for his eyeball, an easy penetration to the brain. I was ‘mad.’ Not as in ‘angry,’ but as in ‘crazy,’ temporarily ‘insane.’

          “Black Kettle!” I heard the scream. “Spare my reckless son and you will also be spared. You will be adopted.

          I looked around and saw that no warriors had time to grab their bows and arrows. Tomahawks and knives would not save Swift Arrow. Even a thrown weapon would not stop me from killing Swift Arrow with my weight pinning him to the ground, choking him as he lay helpless on his back.

          I looked at Bloody Hands, then downward with hatred at Swift Arrow. Kill, kill kept repeating in my mind. The knife was still in the air, prepared to stab Swift Arrow.

I fell forward with my knees on both sides of Swift Arrow’s body, then viciously stabbed downward sinking the long blade to its hilt, in the dirt, alongside Swift Arrow’s head.

          The sounds of wailing women were the last sounds I heard as I fell exhausted and unconscious off Swift Arrow’s body.

“At the finish line of the gauntlet some Indians were screaming their hatred at me for depriving them from bloodying me at unexpected quick start at the beginning of the gauntlet. I remembered my dad talking strategy, with friends, about running the gauntlet. Dad said he would do something unexpected to get down the line, even a short distance would eliminate damaging blows at the start of the run, or some crazy stuff like really acting idiotic because the Indians believe that the bad spirits are in you, and they must not harm the crazy ones whom the evil spirits have gained control of. If they harmed the crazy people they’d be in, danger of being harmed by those evil spirits who had taken control of the person’s mind and body. Mostly I remember my dad’s advice. He said, “Do like Boone did. Start early and run as if your life depended on it because it did depend on it.”

 “So, I did that and shocked the Indians that were standing idly at the starting line and any others that were not paying attention. I avoided being thrashed by the first fourth of the two lines, but that ended quickly as I was now feeling punishing strikes from both sides of the lines.

“A long stick was thrust out at my feet. I tripped and crashed into one side of the line. The resistance of those bodies kept me upright, but the crash caused a domino effect, knocking the next three people out of the line on that side.

“I suddenly saw that when I stayed close to one line, it caused a shortened distance to reach me with their weapons, jamming them from taking a full swing with whatever weapon they had. Half-swings would produce less violent strikes. At this moment I was struck on the head. My blurry view made the finish line look farther away, even as I knew I must be getting closer.

“Remember, kids, when I just said that I jammed the right side of the gauntlet line so only half-swings could hit me. This strategy also meant that the left side of the line had to reach farther with their weapons, so the girls and the boys reached across the gauntlet space so they could hit me. That meant that the younger women mostly struck me, but to my surprise, they had hatred fueling their energy and that energy all went to their arms and hand. They pummeled me enough to knock me down to one knee. Quickly I rolled sideway from that side, across the path to the opposite side, surprising a couple of them, but the others beat me across the back, neck, and head. They paused with startled looks as I rose and sprinted with blurred blood from head cuts running into my eyes. The jamming strategy lost its advantage when some of the punishers stepped into my path and had no trouble with their strikes, even when I burst through them. I was now staggering dizzily as my eyes stared at the distant finish line. The pain from their various weapons produced a continuous burning, scalding, battering sensations. I almost fell but caught myself and staggered onward.  My thoughts were scrambled, but one thought was clear, “Progressing meant nothing. Finishing meant everything.’

“My legs and back were being pounded; stones hit me all over but the ones that hurt the most hit my head. Switches left welts on my buttocks and back, pointed sticks jabbed my ribs, arms, and legs. I protected my head with my arms, so my fingers and forearms were injured badly. I knew I must be bleeding from many places and I thought that I must be leaving a bloody trail, but I couldn’t stop, quit. ‘Go on. Keep going,’ I screamed at myself.  Thankfully, I realized that I had become numb. I could hear and feel the beating, but I was not feeling the extreme pain that I had felt seconds ago. My second wind arrived and I staggered onward.

“Now I was dodging, ducking, twisting, even jumping over ankle high branches which were trying to trip me. The hardest thing to do was to get up after falling down. A couple of nearly teenage boys stepped into the continually narrowing path which meant both sides could strike me easily. I kicked one boy in the ball and the other was so close that I could not punch him. Instinct told me to elbow him, and I did, suddenly and solidly. Both boys were on the ground wreathing in pain. I looked ahead and saw the end of the gauntlet just as I was clubbed on the nose by a large, heavy woman suddenly appeared in my path. I staggered; my eyes flushed so much that I could not see clearly. I brushed the sweat and blood away and could now see her clearly. The woman had her hands raised in proud anger. She swung again but I bent down so that blow passed over my head. She filled my vision and that vision crated terror. Her arms, holding thick pole, were raised to hit me again. I crashed into her soft belly before she had a chance to hit me. Her legs buckled but she didn’t fall. I formed a hard fist and slammed it down on her nose like a hammer. She fainted and fell to the ground with a bloody nose. I ran as low to the ground as I could, crowding one side of the line, then the other with a zig-zag pattern. I heard increased rage, yelling, screaming. If words could hurt me, I’d be dead. I was still being beaten but I didn’t feel the full effect of the blows.

                                      *******

“You really hit a woman and gave her a bloody nose?” Lily asked.

“When you’re in a life or death situation and terrified, you do what needs to be done to save your life, so, yes, I hit the woman, though ordinarily men shouldn’t hit women, and boys shouldn’t hit girls.

Now suppose that Nana or your mom came out here and hit me with a heavy frying pan. You know what I’d have to do don’t cha?

The kids stared at me with gaping mouths surprise, then stared at me, anticipating something bad.

“You mean that you’d hit Nana or our mom? Really?” asked Slone.

“Of course not! How’d you come up with that crazy question. Naturally, I’d take the frying pan away from them, go into the cabin, and cook me some eggs and ham. What were you thinking? It’s not nice to hit women, you know.”

Lily, confusion written with her facial expressions said, “But you said…”

“Now, settle down and behave. Be nice to girls and women.”

          “See, Slone. You don’t hit women. But you hit me.”

“You hit me, too, yah know. So don’t act so innocent, Lily. And you ain’t no woman, that’s for darn sure.”

“And you sure as an ‘outhouse word’ ain’t no man, you little squirt.

“OK, now. Stop arguing. Let me get back to the story.”

                                      *******

“It was survival, life, or death, so hitting a woman should have been expected. I kicked at the Indians’ knees, I spit in the face of another, I stomped on feet, both adult and children. I poked the eyes of others, kicked the groin area, grabbed, pulled, and twisted ears, and picked up some of the stuff that had been thrown at me but missed, then landed ahead of me like stones and branches. I dished out some pain with those stones and sticks. I was exhausted and only halfway through. Then I was hit to the back of my head that knocked me down. As I got up, I dug my fingers into the bare soil, sprang up, two hands full of dry dirt, and threw the dirt into the faces ahead of me. It got me passed a few more of them.

          “I started to zig-zag, again, between the two parallel lines which confused them and caused a few to miss me. Every miss was celebrated with a spark in my dark thoughts.

I passed the half-way point, I remember thinking. I thought about quitting, but only for a weakened second. Then an internal voice screamed the command, “Keep going. Do not stop. Do not quit.” The old lady had settled in my mind. Now I liked her.

Raven Feather’s image appeared to me. I imagined her saying, “Be the wolf and go on.” I staggered onward, bearing the pain of all the strikes to my body, especially in my bloody forearms and fingers. My arms felt heavy as if filled with stones. They were involuntarily dropping lower so now my face was being hit. I tried to move my fingers but it was difficult, probably because some bones were broken.

I was now stagger-stepping like a crippled, old man. Some blows hit hard, some were vicious, ripping skin and allowing blood to flow freely. Some strikes seemed soft, maybe done by a child. Blood and tears washed over my eyes giving me a pinkish view of my surroundings. I could only see distorted pink images, but I didn’t need details to see the next person. I reached my hands outward. My stupidity resulted in strikes that broke a finger; I felt it snap. The breakage sounded like a dry twig being broken. In a daze of pain, I could still hear the screaming on both sides of me, so I placed my hands and forearms up as best I could to protect my head and face. I thought I could see the end of the gauntlet line, the finishing point. My legs felt like stone pillars walking as slowly as a snail. The vocal violence of the gauntlet sounded different coming from one side. Something was covering my ear not letting me hear distinctly. Later I found out, from Raven Feathers, that it was a flap of skin and hair, part of my scalp that was torn away from my head and hung downward over the ear. I was making progress. I regained my hope and some strength came with it. I kept moving toward the finish line.

I was being battered into submission, but the end was within reach. Every time I looked at it, it looked closer.  I’d passed the three-quarters mark. My speed was increasing because I was bent forward as low as I could, which made me lean forward. Leaning forward gave me a falling motion, but my feet kept up with that falling motion and gave the appearance of running. I saw the finish line a short distance away. My brain said, “There it is,” but it was blocked by someone.

My ribs were battered painfully, and my fingers looked bent and distorted. A couple fingers pointed in the wrong direction. Broken I thought, after having used my arms and hands to protect my face as much as possible.

“What the hell is it,” I mumbled. “Got to get passed it. Got to finish. Move. Move, dammit! I yelled at myself.

Then I heard a familiar voice. “You no go more,” was bellowed at me in a high, immature voice.

Swift Arrow shouted it again as he blocked the finish line of the gauntlet so I had to go by him to reach the end.

I nearly collapsed. My brain felt as if it was shrinking. Sounds were heard as echoes in my empty skull. I was near the end of the gauntlet with little mental and physical strength remaining. I swayed unsteadily as I peered at Swift Arrow’s furiously smiling face.

I could see that I was only a few steps away from finishing. No longer was anyone striking me. All eyes were on me and Swift Arrow.

Suddenly I noticed a bright flash, the sun’s reflection caught my attention. In Swift Arrow’s hand was a knife.

“You come, Black Kettle. Is day to die,” Swift Arrow taunted me.

          I seethed with the energy of a crazy person. Calling forth unknown reserves of strength and rage, I stood erect from my bowed posture, my bloody and swollen face must have looked monstrous. I howled like a wolf full of blood-curdling fury.

We would come together as if we were flint and steel igniting opposing, fiery rages in both of us. But I had nothing left but a bluff, so I stood erect as if I were willing and able to clash with him from where I stood. I smiled and waved him to come to me.

Taken by surprise by my look of boldness, Swift Arrow had not expected that. He hesitated then walked towards me. When I felt steady, I took small, slow steps toward him, not taking my eyes off him, not removing my smile but growling as a wolf might do when in danger. My howling caused him to twitch his lips, his eyes winked a few times as if from a nervous tic. My repeated howling was intimidating him. Did he just now realize he had no help from his father or friends? He was on his own, in a fight where he was the usual bully relying on his father reputation? ‘Be wolf,’ Raven Feathers had said.

Swift Arrow raised his knife and froze in that position as he saw me floating toward him, his eyes and body frozen in disbelief. He saw me floating feet first, my feet aimed at him. I can’t account for the required energy, but I had run a few steps, jumped into the air, parallel to the ground, and plunged my heels into his head and chest. I had heard a story about a mountain man who used that trick to defeated an Indian warrior in a fight to the death. It was a significant risk for me, but I was desperate.

Both our bodies fell to the ground. Temporarily, neither of us moved. The villagers stood, as if frozen, shocked by what they had just seen. Swift Arrow’s body moved sluggishly, groaning noises escaping his bloody mouth. Slowly I rose from the ground, limped to Swift Arrow, and picked up his knife. I stepped over his chest, one leg on each side of his waist, the knife held in a downward stabbing position. I dropped to my knees letting my butt fall hard onto his stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. Kill was my only thought, so I screamed it. “Kill! Kill!” I repeated as I held his neck to the ground with my left hand and raised the knife in my right hand to its full height, aiming for his eyeball, an easy penetration to the brain. I was ‘mad.’ Not as in ‘angry,’ but as in ‘crazy,’ temporarily ‘insane.’

                                      *******

          A second before I plunged the knife blade into Swift Arrow, I heard a masculine scream saying, “Black Kettle! Spare my reckless son and you will also be spared. You will be adopted.

          I looked around and saw that no warriors had time to grab their bows and arrows. Tomahawks and knives would not save Swift Arrow. Even a thrown weapon would not stop me from killing Swift Arrow with my weight pinning him to the ground, choking him as he lay helpless on his back.

          I looked at sideways at Bloody Hands, then looked downward with hatred at Swift Arrow. Kill, kill kept repeating in my mind. The knife was still in the air, prepared to stab Swift Arrow.

I fell forward with my knees on both sides of Swift Arrow’s body while I viciously stabbed downward sinking the blade to its hilt, in the dirt, alongside Swift Arrow’s head.

          The sounds of wailing women and children were the last sounds I heard as I fell exhausted, then unconscious, and fell off Swift Arrow’s body.

                                      CHAPTER 9

I was picked-up, then carried to the old woman’s isolated living section, at the extreme end of her wolf-clan longhouse. Later, I would wonder why she had chosen to isolate herself — or was being isolated — from the other families. I would find out soon enough that she preferred it that way.

          Then I slipped into a black, starry-sky unconsciousness, with tiny, twinkling lights sharing my blackness, with a full moon which provided the background for a soaring raven, as if the moon were a large, lighted ball on which the raven could land. Then, as if distracted, the raven turned its head, stared at me, flew to me, and landed on my chest.

          I woke up now to find the old woman bathing my chest, which was bruised and bloody with cuts, abrasions, and dirt. My ear and scalp hurt the most, but I didn’t know why, not yet.

“You brave,” the old lady said.

Then, to my surprise, I realized that she may know more of my language.

“Good, no kill Swift Arrow, or you be in spirit world. Bloody Hands lies. He is baby to bleeding mother during being born. He come out of mother with bloody hands. Is how he got the name. He wants kill, wash hands in the blood. He big hate in head. Wants always kill. He son, Swift Arrow, be like him. No trust them. Watch them.”

I moaned, felt dizzy, overcome, once again, by exhaustion and I looked at her, confused about my future but too tired to be scared.

          Raven Feathers smiled at me. The smile was lost inside her deep wrinkles. I slipped into unconsciousness, again, while she continued to bathe away my filthiness with her short, swollen-knuckled fingers that looked as if they were made from gnarled strips of bark. When I woke I was lying on a soft, hairy side of a deer hide, with the hairy side of another one covering me like a blanket. She was hovering over me, her eyes, dark as a cloudy, moonless midnight. She had one tiny star in each pupil that flashed briefly, then faded away. To me, she was mystifying, and secretive. What did she want with me? I wondered.”

                                      *******

I paused the story, allowing time for a rest and for questions. During the pause I noticed that there were no noises coming from the cabin.

“Either Nana and Mara were working quietly, or they were listening to my story.”

Lily stated, “That old woman removed all your clothes and washed you while you were naked?”

          “Yep, she sure did, but to the Indians being naked is not an embarrassment as it is with white people.

Slone and Lily smiled at each other and giggled before Slone added, “Da? Are you kidding, or were you really butt naked?”

Louder giggles now.

“OK. Keep it quiet or the story can’t continue. I wasn’t exactly butt naked. Do you know what a ‘breechcloth’ is?”

          I could see that they were both confused, so I whispered, “All I was wearing while being bathed was a breechcloth, which is a wide strip of soft leather that covers your private parts in the front and your ass-crack in the back. Now, be quiet and let me continue” They were quiet, except for the giggling.

They burst into muffled laughter, their eyes watering profusely.

“OK, now. Enough about nakedness. That’s off limit with you mom and Nana. You’ll get me in trouble with both of them.”

                                      *******

“Across the village lay Swift Arrow with a badly bruised chest, painfully sensitive ribs, a broken and bloody nose, and a strained neck that caused severe pain when he tried to turn his head. But the most severe injury was shame. Me, a white boy, had humiliated him. He, as well as his father, could not accept that defeat. I could see, by their expressions, the fiery hatred that burned red-hot in their minds, like bubbling magma deep inside a volcano.

          Bloody Hands had looked at me sternly, then cast his eyes aside, feeling his own humiliation with the actions of his foolish and weak son.

He may have thought, “How can my boy ever be a leader and one day take my place as a warrior chief of the tribe if he is weak?”

“A few days later I was still sore, but able to leave the longhouse to walk around the village.

I knew now that the old woman’s name was Raven Feathers which

reminded me of my dream. She wore raven’s feathers in her mostly white hair. She had added two black feathers which hung from the sides of her head, parallel to her upper head hair. When a breeze caught them, she looked as if her head had grown wings. It added to her mystery and looked as if more villagers than usual were avoiding her. She stared at Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow. Each of them turned away from her stare as the wind blew and the head feathers became wings.

Few villagers would talk to me due to not knowing English and the few who tried, I could not understand, not knowing the Iroquois language. I was eyed with suspicion, anger, and hatred. I felt fear but would not show it because Raven Feathers said, before my walk, “Look into eyes. No fear them.” She meant, “Show no fear.” Soon I became an expert in the fake smile and my own hatred hidden behind fake smiles.

“I remembered Raven Feathers said that there was one warrior who spoke understandable though crude English, as if he hadn’t spoken it in years. His Iroquois name was Gray Cloud.  I’d already met him but hadn’t mention it to her. I said that I knew who he was and that I would try to talk to him. When I found him and asked questions, he only gave vague and reluctant answers, so I walked away from him quickly so the villagers would not get the impression we were friends. Most of them disliked me and would dislike or be suspicious of anyone who had befriended me.

“Over the next few days, I learned that the village was farther away from any white-man settlements than I had imagined. Guessing at distances on foot was much easier than guessing distances travelled on water, especially if the canoe travels in a rapid current. That kind of travel is relaxing, but an exhausted, fearful body loses track of time and distance.

I learned that Raven Feathers was the sole volunteer to help me recover from my injuries. I also learned that Raven Feathers was feared for her mysterious behaviors, vast healing knowledge and her dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to stab at those who met her glare. It was supposed that her eyes could see into the spirit worlds of good and evil. She was not liked for the mysterious chants she used when crows roosted on nearby trees, them wanting to feast on the ripe garden food. In some ways she seemed to be an annoyance to some of her people, especially some women who shunned her suspicious ability to look at the tops of tall trees, mumble something and soon after, the ravens came to scare away the annoying crows. She would give thanks to the ravens using a prayer-like chant. Many villagers considered her raven talking to be a gift from evil spirits, but other thought the skill came from the good spirits. Especially frightening for many of the villagers was the fact that the ravens mumbled incoherent responses that Raven Feathers seemed to understand. It was known that ravens could mimic human words, the suspicion was not about that, it was about understanding human words. When Raven Feathers spoke to them, they acted as if they could understand her with nods of their heads, plus the up and down, and sideways movement used for the ‘yes’ and ‘no’ signs. It looked as if they were having a silent conversation and she and the ravens could easily understand each other. But they praised her when the garden-thieves, the crows, flew away, none of them stealing from their gardens as crows often did but the ravens didn’t. It was thought that Raven Feathers had control of them, was friends with them and they would do as she commanded. They thought similarly about the wolves that prowled near the village, usually unseen and unheard. Raven Feathers informed the village chief as well as the warrior chief, Bloody Hands, that the wolves were guards against an enemy attacks and animal attacks that had often happened in years past when the great, male, black bear came out of hibernation and was hungry. The smell of the village food, the village dogs, the village supply of deer meat attracted them, plus a lust for food made them more dangerous than any other animal, except wolves, who Raven Feathers said would not attack any villager who did not attack them. She worded that as a warning to anyone foolish enough to try, especially children and teenagers, and even warriors.

Raven Feathers explained the relationship between ravens and wolves. “They are twins. Raven is female, known for her ability to protect, also for wisdom and intelligence, while the Wolf is male, known for its power, destruction, and darkness.

                                      *******

Raven Feathers seldom talked to me in English. She used sign language that I picked up quickly. Her explanation was that I had to learn the Iroquois language and stop speaking English. Stopping English and learning their language quickly would expose me to much more of the thoughts, ideas, culture and traditions of her people and village life. No longer speaking in English would force me to learn the Iroquois language quicker. It made sense, so we limited our talking to sign language until I learned the Iroquois language.

The villagers, to appease the old spirit woman’s mysterious ways,

and helpfulness, regularly provided her with food and firewood, plus other things that she may need or request, which her gnarled fingers could no longer sew, or firewood she could no longer chop. If she were disturbed or angry, hundreds of ravens would fly over the longhouses, darkening the sky with their congested flight pattern and dominating all sounds with their loud patter, as if an ominous, black spot in the sky hovered over the village. This, combined with wolves howling, reminded everyone in the village of her power. If her anger were appeased, the ravens were sent away, drifting like a dark storm cloud away from the village, though they could still be heard from a great distance. The same was true of the usually unseen wolves whose howling she silence with a chant. Her mysterious nature was thought to give her access to the spirit worlds of both people and animals. That made it difficult for her to maintain friendships. She was mostly alone until she was needed. Only then was she treated as a great friend.

Raven Feathers would smile, sometimes laugh, during these occasions — when she was out of sight of the villagers — because she knew that getting rid of the crows, ravens and wolves was an important motivation for providing her with firewood and food, though some wise villagers knew the ravens and wolves were never far away. At rare times, she would reject the food and cook what she most desired but add her own herbs and potions. In return, for the food and firewood, Raven Feathers made herbal potions to cure sicknesses, charms for protection against evil spirits, male potency tonics and female fertility potions. Her services worked so well that she was considered a necessary inconvenience — some considered her an unavoidable and necessary evil.

                                      *******

“Male potency? Female what?” Slone blurted with a sarcastic smile. “You mean sex stuff?” Then a mischievous smile

“Geez, you don’t know anything, do you,” Lily scolded.

“Or he knows too much for his age. Anyway, questions like that are for you to direct at your mom and dad. It’s out of bounds for me. It was a mistake to mention it, though it’s quite true.

                                      *******

“I was startled by Gray Cloud’s voice as I carried firewood into the shelter, a duty that I accepted voluntarily. The sound of hearing English was like water to a thirsty man who needs more than one sip.

“You see Raven Feathers make spirit potions. Healing potions?”

“Yes, I have seen. She is teaching me your language. Until then we only use sign language.

“Must learn fast.”

          “I know a few words.”

“Raven Feathers will adopt you into the tribe as her son.”

“Yes. She told me using English so that I understood.”

 “But I’m confused. I’m too young to be the son of an old woman.”

“Raven Feathers, she like you. Husband, son killed long ago by Huron warriors. You take place of son.”

“How did they get killed?”

“You talk Raven Feathers.”

“Raven Feathers not want me speak English.” (I tried to use a little of English as I could, yet still be understood).

“Do sign language,” he said abruptly.

As Gray Cloud walked away, I looked over my shoulder. A stretched smile broadcast on his face as he said, “She speak English. She show how speak Haudenosaunee, but you say Iroquois. French trappers say that name long ago.” He turned around and I could hear the laughter fading as he got farther away. I did not know why. That was my initial life in the village, I didn’t know “Why?” for so many things that were happening.

“Damn! Good thing I wasn’t saying terrible things about her or the villagers. She speaks English better than I thought she did.” I called myself names for being stupid. I remember feeling the heat of my reddening face, the emotional heat of a fool. I was a rabbit trying to fly. I was also lucky to be alive.

“Then a good thought occurred to me, “Now she can teach me her language faster, instead of picking up a few words here and there, at a slow pace. She probably had that in mind, already.

“As I hurried back to Raven Feather’s longhouse shelter, I took note of the many eyes which followed my every movement. Would I always be in danger here? Raven Feathers warned me not to trust Bloody Hands and his son. Should I not trust anybody but Raven Feather? Is Raven Feathers also to be trusted?

“I guess I had better not wander outside the village, nor run away or they won’t spare my life a second time,” I thought. That thought caused me to slow my pace. I saw the shelter and took in the fact that it was plain looking, except for the two black raven feathers painted on the outside bark of the white birch siding. I also thought it was spooky having all those raven feathers hanging throughout the outside of her lodge and some hanging from the roof inside her section of the longhouse.

          She was standing near the lodge opening as I approached her. Her eyes did not look threatening, as I had expected. She used sign language to invite me to enter. Then she pointed to the deer hide that covered the entrance opening.”

 Venison was cooking. The air was a mist of flavorful meat and herbs. My mouth began salivating. My hunger successfully distracted me from questioning her at once about her competent knowledge of the English language. How did she know it? What were the circumstances?

Raven Feathers saw me licking my lips.

          “Eat,” she said, then pointed to a wooden trencher. I picked up the carved-out wooden bowl. I felt silly as I searched about to find a spoon and fork. Won’t find them here, dummy, I ridiculed myself.

“Raven Feathers filled my bowl and placed a small hunting knife in front of me. She smiled, then cut a piece of meat and used the knife as a fork to stab the meat and bring it to her mouth. With sign language she said I should do as she had done.

“She trusts me with a knife,” It thought.  I wondered why she was treating me this nicely? All the others feared her mystical powers or, at least, ignored her, fearful of her hidden spirit powers. She’s only an old lady, I thought. I must be missing something. I knew so little about her. She wanted me to take the place of her son. Why a white boy?”

                                      *******

“How did she learn English?” Slone asked as I paused and thought about the question.

“Well, when we finished eating, I asked her about that. Apparently, a decade before I came to the village, there was a thirty-four year old white woman captive whose family had been killed. Raven Feathers mentioned that she had adopted her and she had lived with Raven Feathers for two years, taking the name Shining Lake. It was Shining Lake who taught Raven Feathers the English language. Then, at council meeting of elders, held at Canandaigua Lake, Raven Feathers saw the much respected Handsome Lake, who had been her friend for many years, though she seldom saw him. They had a connection which their similar minds easily detect. He marveled at her spirit powers and vast healing powers, and she respected him highly for his shaman, prophet, and sachem ability. His was the one person whom she felt had a higher standing than herself. He was forty-two years old and unmarried, so she told him about the pleasant, and talented white, red-haired, woman captive she had in her village.

On the return trip to Raven Feathers’ village, Handsome Lake traveled with her. Handsome Lake met Shining Lake and was impressed, especially since she had no wish to return to the white world and her abusive Irish husband and his relatives who had never accepted her and would now reject her totally since her husband was killed. After a week visitation Handsome Lake and Shining Lake departed for Handsome Lake’s village in the Cayuga Nation where they were married in the Iroquois tradition. She and Raven Feathers only saw each other three times in the next five years, but their get-togethers were delightful for both of them and Handsome Lake.”

“Upon first seeing each other, they would both say, with much respect, “Nay-weh-sge-no.” Informally it meant “hello,” but formally it meant, “I am thankful you are well.” As they talked, “Yogaha,” could be heard many times. It was the quick way of saying, “Thank you.”

          “You mean she was captured like you were?” Lily asked.

“That’s what Raven Feathers told me, Lily. However, this was a captive woman with red hair. Indians were fascinated by some white women’s different colored hair, especially blonde hair.”

“She had red hair?” Slone said.

“Yep. As it was explained to me, her hair was shoulder length and close to the color of dark cherries. Sunlight made it glow more reddish.”

“So, she was English and taught English to Raven Feathers?” asked Lily.

“Actually, I she was Irish and spoke the English language.”

          “What was her name?” Slone asked, excitedly.

          “That’s hard to explain,” uttered Raven Feathers. In our village she was called Shining Lake, but Handsome Lake didn’t like having ‘Lake’ in both their names. He listened to her often for a week, then renamed her. He said it was her voice that impressed him.

          “What’s that mean?” asked Lily.

“Handsome Lake had renamed her Go-day-oh-wan-niss.” I pronounced it phonetically, and then admitted I wasn’t sure of the correct pronunciation, nor of the correct spelling.

“So, what did it mean?” asked an impatient Slone.

 I do remember that because it confused me. I was told what it meant and still didn’t understand.”

“Huh?” both kids uttered in confusion.

“OK. Look. That Indian name meant Falling Voices, but I don’t know what it refers to or how to interpret it.”

Slone and Lily nodded their head in further confusion.

Handsome Lake did not explain it other than to say it was personal between he and his new wife.

          “Now, I can understand the voices part, if it means she spoke both English and the Seneca language. However, what are falling voices? I don’t get that part. What do you think ‘falling voices’ could be talking about?”

“What?” the kids said with confused expressions.

There was a pause while the two of them pondered that question. The three of us did not come to a satisfying answer, so I moved on.

“You may be wondering how Raven Feathers and Falling Voices got along.”

“Was Falling Voices placed under a magic spell and became Raven Feather’s slave?” Slone blurted.

“Dummy,” Lily responded, annoyed.

“Well, she was magic, wasn’t she?” Slone mumbled.

“Falling Voices was, at first, shunned for being a captured white woman, as Raven Feathers was shunned for being a woman of powerful medicine and mystery, not unlike a witch might be treated. With that in common, the two women got along splendidly and needed each other, though Raven Feathers liked being alone much more than Falling Voices did, but Falling Voices spent many a night looking at and searching the stars. She seemed fascinated by them and would often mumble while starring at them.

Slone and Lily suddenly starred at each other, then made excited noises. Both raised their hand to ask a question.

“Maybe it’s the stars, Da,” Slone blurted.

“Yes, Da. She’s listening to the stars,” Lily shouted.

Slone added, “She’s listening to the stars. Talking stars.”

“But the star voices need to reach her so they have to fall to her. She hears their falling voices.”

“I’ll be damned if that isn’t the best explanation I’ve ever heard. You two are amazing. Great thinking.”

“Oh, yeah. Almost forgot to say that before I escaped, Raven Feathers told me what Falling Voice’s English name was.

“What? What?” I heard the kids say.

Then the children squealed delightedly. “What was it?”

“Umm. Let’s see now. It was . . .” I paused to tease the kids. I looked at the ground, then to my left, then towards the sky as I tapped my index finger on my chin as if I were trying to recall her name. “Geez . . . I hope I haven’t forgotten her English name. I know Raven Feathers told me. It was . . . umm. Yeah, it was . . . No, that’s not right either. It was on the tip of my tongue just a second ago.” I looked down at the porch boards and said, “It fell off my tongue. Do you see it anywhere?”

I heard frustrated exhaling from them, then, Lily, in a voice louder than usual said, “Oh Daaaa,” impatiently, drawing out the letter ‘a.’

“Stop teasing, Da. We know that you know the name.” Slone pleaded.

“OK, OK. Her English name was Anne O’Sullivan, but when her family came to America from Ireland, the whole family dropped the “O,” then their last name became Sullivan. The Indians captured her at her parents wilderness farm when she was about fifteen. She was abducted from an area close to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania which is at the extreme southeast corner of the state where the Genesee River starts. Then she had to follow her captors hundreds of miles to the Genesee Valley, near Lake Ontario.”

Of all the Iroquois tribes, the Seneca became noted for their adventurous exploration and long distance travels which could take them away for months. It seemed to me that they had a little of an explorer’s curiosity in them, some of them. Maybe that’s why they were so far from home when they captured her, although they were painted for fighting, had weapons in sight, and there was nothing friendly about any of them. Hostility enclosed them like a fog.

                                      *******

“What happened to her,” Lily asked, in awe.

“I told you. She married an important Cayuga Indian named Handsome Lake. They had children and were happy. She gladly adopted the Indian way of life and remained with them all her life.

!!!!!“She never tried to escape?” Slone asked, disapprovingly.

“Her parents and older brother had died in the Indian raid, so she had no one to return to unless she sailed back to Ireland. Plus, her mom and dad had told her that if she were ever captured, she should not put up a fight and should not try to escape or she would by killed. That way she might be found, eventually. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. I don’t know all the facts. Sometimes the stories are wrong in parts and in details.”

“Isn’t that being a coward?’ asked Slone.

“Slone, she was helpless. Even though her parents and brother were dead, there was still a chance for her to be rescued or traded to white people. So, she made a wise choice. Personally, I don’t think she was a coward. She survived.

“Better a live coward with a husband, children, and friends than being dead because you ran away with little chance of escape. Also, run away, where? Her relatives were in Ireland?” Lily asked, as she stared at Slone.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. Being hundreds of miles away, getting lost and in the wilderness. Escape was difficult, plus she was a girl. What do they know? Afraid of their own shadows,” Slone stated with a big smile at Lily. Then he emphasized his agreement with a fart and a smile.

“You’re disgusting,” Lily responded as she moved away from Slone.

I tried not to say or do anything, but it was difficult for me not to smile or laugh. Farts are funny and Lily is just as guilty.

                                      *******

“Swift Arrow’s injuries, being more serious than first thought, it took him a couple of months to heal instead of two weeks as originally thought. All that time his mind must have boiled in a bubbling rage that only revenge could calm or at least simmer.

“By that time, I had learned the tribal language well enough to communicate at a rudimentary level, but well enough for daily life when combined with sign language.

“Also, during Swift Arrow’s recovery, Raven Feathers adopted me as a replacement for her dead son. Since everyone knew me as Black Kettle, that became my official tribal name.”

I heard two voices at once, “What’s it mean in Indian language?”

“I never was able to pronounce it correctly, so I’ll try. Black Kettle in the Iroquois language is odze-sa-ee (the color of charcoal) followed by yeno-dzaniyo-dahgwa (hanging pot). I eventually recognized it when it was said by others, but I didn’t like the sound of it, plus, some of the words in English had simple spellings, with few letters, but my Iroquois name for Black Kettle is three times a long. I learned by listening and practicing each night with Raven Feathers, but never in a million years would I be able to spell the words.

When Swift Arrow was well enough to leave his longhouse section, he made his way around the village telling everyone his hateful thoughts about me. He was bold enough to approach me, stare at me, spit at my feet and express his hatred and contempt for me. I kept a calm expression as I looked at returned his stare, I showed my false respect by deferring to his actions and speech, but most of all, not returning his fiery rage. I thought the villagers would eventually find Swift Arrow’s constant outpouring of hatred and anger boring, especially when I showed respect for all the adult villagers, even those who treated me poorly. I even played with their children, teaching them colonial games such as various kinds of races, tag, jump rope, hide-and-seek, marbles (with beads), swings, and rolling a hoop. But any game that involved running after the children was especially useful to me due to my plan of escaping by running, distancing myself from any pursuers, then being in good enough condition to keep that distance between us, or, hopefully, lengthening that distance.

The races with the kids got longer when some of the preteenagers got involved. I liked the endurance training part of it but making it look like a game. I let myself get beat when I needed to do that so I didn’t arouse suspicion. I felt good about my ability to run because that was my only reasonable way to do it.  Trying to use a canoe on the rivers would never work. I would need to outrun the best runners in the village. The children were delighted with the games which lowered suspicious looks as well as the dislike that stood between me and most of the village adults.

However, that did not mean I was not alert and careful because I sensed the growing, and extreme danger that the healthy Swift Arrow presented to me. There was no healing his hateful feelings and being on the alert to any way that he might want to express them. My own body expressed concern when I thought I felt ants crawling up my arms.

                                      *******

“When I woke, I was naked, but I was covered with an animal hide blanket. It was made of deer hide with the soft, furry side against me. I looked embarrassingly at Raven Feathers, who showed no embarrassment at all as she pointed to my new clothes. Those clothes were the same as most young male Indian kids and they took getting used to.

I rocked in the chair and reached out to tickle Lily until she said, “I give. I give.”

Then Slone caught me off guard by asking, “Why would that old woman hide your blanket?”

“Hide my blanket? What do you mean?”

“You said she tried to hide your blanket.”

“Yeah,” interrupted Lily. “You were butt naked. So why would she hide your animal hide blanket?”

I thought, with a smile, “So now I’m being teased. Nakedness always seems funny to kids, if it’s someone else, but embarrassing if it’s them.”

My ears perked up. I looked to the cabin door. I heard muffled laughter from behind it.

Not just the kids having fun, I thought. My wife and daughter are laughing, too.

Looking back at the kids, I saw them covering their mouths to hide their smiles and laughter, grand mischief on both their faces.

“Now listen you two stinkers. I did not say that she tried to hide my deer skin blanket and leave me naked. I said the blanket that covered me was made from a deer hide and it was as soft as a babies butt.”

Slone whispered, “I hope they wiped the deer’s butt first.”

They burst into laughter, eyes watering, and I followed them.

“Before I could continue, Slone asked, “When the hide dries, why isn’t it stiff like the animals we skin?”

“Well, we don’t use the hides, so we throw them away and they get stiff and hard, but the Indians try to use every part of the killed deer, with little waste. But to do that they have to prepare the hide for further use, and we don’t do that.”

“How do they do that?” they both said nearly simultaneously and excitedly.

I answered with, “The deer hide is soaked in water for a day. That loosens the hair so it can be scrapped off, then the inner side of the hide is scrapped with a deer rib to remove any fat. Next, the deer’s brain is soaked in water squeezed, massaged until it falls apart and mixes with the water until the water becomes milky from the dissolved brain. The hide is then soaked in the milky water. I don’t know what’s in the brain that does that. The hide is then scrapped one more time to remove any remaining mucus and fat. Now it’s allowed to dry. After it dries it can be made into anything, but usually it’s made into clothing and blankets that are soft and flexible. The stiffness is completely gone. The tanned deer hide is often referred to as ‘buckskin' although the hide can come from a female deer. Let’s not get lost in how Indians make things. It takes too long.”

They both nodded in agreement.

Lily grinned and asked, “So, Da, did you live with that old woman from then on?”

          “Like she was your pretend mother?” Slone added.

“Yes. I stayed with Raven Feathers for the months that I lived in the tribe’s village. She became more like my grandmother, and I was kind of like a newly discovered nephew. It’s surprising how well we got along. I grew to liked her as if she was another grandmother. After a couple of weeks with her, she treated me well, though she was moody, mysterious, and thoughtfully quiet. She always seemed to be thinking deeply about something. She only had a few friends, but when she was needed, everyone acted as a friend. I could see that she was feared, but a necessary part of the spiritual safety of the village and healing those who asked for it.

“I once asked her if she saw someone who needed help, but refused it, what would she do?”

She didn’t even need to think about it. She answered immediately, “Return longhouse. Much work.”

I said, “You would try to help them even though they needed it?”

“No help who want no help.”

“Sometimes white healers help heal people who do not want it.”

“Shame. You life you own. Live, die, you own. You choose you path.”

I asked, “No help even if someone will die without help?”

“You no hear me. No help who want no help.”

                                      CHAPTER 10

“After three months of indoctrinations into tribal ways and traditions, I was finally allowed to learn how to use the bow and arrow, as well as the tomahawk. There also other activities that I was allowed to participate in and to learn about. It’s what I needed, something to break the boredom. It also meant that I was being increasingly trusted, but I think Raven Feathers had much to do with that because Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow did not look happy because she was not a tribe leader and had no business interfering with decisions like that. I was also alert to the dangers of Swift Arrow. He would not obey his father’s orders if he could think of a clever, or mischievous around them. Raven Feathers told me that she could tell, simply by looking into his eyes that he had a hateful and angry fire burning inside of him which he constantly found reasons to fuel. It could be fueled as easily as looking at me.

“I practiced day after day and became one of the average boys in bow and arrow accuracy. However, it was with the tomahawk that I excelled. Not the hand-to-hand combat but throwing it with speed and accuracy. I called it throwing the hawk, and for a while I became obsessed with that skill. Soon I was successfully challenging the young apprentices and other teenagers who wanted be become warriors. But I allowed pride control me. My ego became too great, and my smiles were seen as insults to those with less accuracy. It was the wrong thing to do. It was my ego and pride that was dangerous. Those two things, plus my prideful bragging that nearly got me in trouble. I needed to discipline myself. Be humble.

“I was improving my skills quickly, willingly adapting to my new status. The young warriors and their fathers were getting embarrassed that I was doing so well, so quickly, so I pretended that I was lucky and started making my throws and arrow shots inaccurate. Just in time, too, because Swift Arrow was starting to spread rumors that I had improved because of Raven Feather’s evil spirits, that I she was using spells or potions to help me or to hinder the other young warriors. I was being accused as being the witch’s apprentice. But when I started faltering, the rumors faded, but never died. Suspicion also weakened when I slammed my right shoulder into a tree trunk purposely to get a bruise, then claim it healed wrongly and affected my performances. The most convincing evidence, though, was the sling I made, like I’d seen a white doctor do for a patient. I kept my right arm in that sling for a week, making sure I emphasized that injury and that I was not being protected by Raven Feathers. I explained the ‘sling’ to Raven Feathers, and she gave a silent nod of her head in agreement.”

                                      *******

“You would lose on purpose?” asked Slone, disappointedly.

“Yes, I lost many of the competitions purposely. Raven Feathers and I thought it would be best not to be one of the best, but rather, to be more average and to appear as if I were struggling with my accuracy but was still learning slowly.

“That’s not fair,” Lily added.

“Remember, I did not want to damage my chances for escape. What if I started winning too much? What if I was consistently in the better groups with better skills? Would the tomahawk, or even the bow and arrow, be taken away from me? I could not take that chance. When it came time to escape, I wanted to take my knife, and tomahawk, plus my bow and arrows when I escaped. You understand?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” responded Slone, sadly.

“Sure,” stated Lily, responding like Slone.

Then, one day in the beginning of the fall season I was invited to go with a hunting party to hunt for meat for the village. I was delighted to do something other than gather firewood, cook, learn the details of the Seneca language, run errands, and stay out of Swift Arrow’s way.

                                      *******

“I knew that I was always being watched so I never made a false move, and I smiled a lot to show that I liked to hunt and, in general, I liked my new life with the Senecas. It was an adventure, so far.

“I had most of the village convinced that I was happy with them, too. My desire was to go home. However, I was not dumb enough to believe that I could convert Swift Arrow, nor those like him.”

Slone: “Did you ever race with Swift Arrow?”

“Yes, I did. At first, I could not beat him. He was named correctly. He ran as swift as an arrow, looking like he was doing it without much effort. But I ran more with the older children, I played frequent running games with them to disguise my improving ability and my intentions and” . . .

“You finally beat him, huh?” Lily interrupted, excitedly but I did not respond to the interruption. I kept telling the story.

“Soon I felt like I could beat him in a race, I was tempted to do that, but I knew that if I won, it would be a mistake. Swift Arrow’s hatred of me had grown into persistent and abundant taunts over the long months that I was there, so, although I now had the feeling that I could beat him, it would be a mistake to show that to everyone. That feeling was used to for my running plan. I purposely stayed behind the main group of better runners, but I had the feeling of competition and wanted burst forward and win. I was always tempted to do that, but the image of Raven Feathers using sign language to express the word ‘fool’ prevented it. That image became vivid, and I resisted doing better in the any further races. It would let them know how much I had improved against boys that were my own age. I didn’t think I could beat the fastest of the warrior runners, but I entertained myself thinking that I could do it if I had to, in a life or death situation.”

Both children looked downward trying to hide their disappointment. Winning was such an important white person’s goal.

                                      *******

“One late winter night, as we got ready to sleep, Raven Feathers turned to me and said, in her broken English, “No can run. They kill. You wait corn plant season.”

“I looked across the fire pit at her, not sure what to say since she knew what I was planning to do soon. But she had told me to wait, as if she wanted to help me. I risked revealing my intentions with a shrug of my shoulders, palms outward and open in front of me, question marks in my facial gestures and asked her when it would be a suitable time for escape? She held up ten fingers, closed her hand and, again held up ten fingers. She kept doing this until she got to sixty. Two new moons was sixty days, or two months. I felt like crying, like slashing my lower abdomen and letting my guts spill onto the ground. I looked at my calendar pole where I cut the number of days I was in the village. Sixty days would be in the month of May. Two more months. I slammed my right fist into my open left palm, then looked at Raven Feathers. Before I could question her, she had turned her back to me as she rolled under her animal hide blanket.”

                                      *******

I saw Lily and Slone smiling mischievously and said, “And no jokes about your twisted meaning of the word hide.”

Both children laughed.

Slone: “But now she knows that you plan to escape, Da.”

Lily: “Why didn’t she tell on you?”

“I guess I had been giving little but noticeable clues to my future intentions. She seemed to feel and to understand my need to be free to return home. She saw that I was improving quickly with the bow and arrows, the tomahawk, and the need to be a good runner. She easily figured it out, but she didn’t tell anyone.”

Slone: “So what did you do?”

Lily: “Yeah, Da. Weren’t you scared?”

“What did I do? Was I scared? Well, what I did was, I got ready to go with the hunting party, and, yes, I was scared, especially about getting an arrow in the back. I remember thinking that I could actually feel it as a painful point between my shoulder blades. Whispered groans and fearful faces settled on them. They looked at each other, then at me. Silence prevailed on the porch and in the cabin.

                                      *******

“Raven Feathers had already given me her son’s bow and arrows, as well as his tomahawk. Each end of the bow had a raven feather attached to it so the feather could swing freely. She told me that it would allow me to judge wind direction before each shot, as well as be protection by the good spirits who often rode on the backs of ravens and wolves.

          “On the hunt, I was nervous and yet so excited that I missed both of my shots at sitting rabbits. They were real misses, not done purposely. I received plenty of scowls, laughter, and mockery.

          “I was thoroughly embarrassed, especially with Swift Arrow and his closest friend’s looks of disgust. They did not laugh aloud to protect the quietness needed in a hunting environment, but the humiliation felt rang like sinister church bell, the clapper banging against both sides of my skull.

“Clapper?” Lily interrupted.

Slone started clapping his hands and using his buttocks muscles to bounce up and down. “See,” he said, “I’m the clapper.”

“That’s funny, but the clapper of a bell is the round metal ball inside the bell that swings back and forth and hits the sides of the bell. When Lily started clapping with Slone, I joined in. Three clappers making clapper noise for fun.

I returned to the story.

                                      *******

“However, when Swift Arrow started to point his nocked arrow my way, then lowering it while smiling, I knew that missing the rabbits was not why I should be worried. An arrow in the back should be my primary concern. From then on, I walked a few paces behind or far to the side of Swift Arrow. Even that was no guarantee of safety. One of Swift Arrow’s friends could hurt or kill me easily.

I couldn’t help myself from getting distracted, though. I was free of the village, in the fine smelling, lush forest, where natural beauty is supreme.

“I realized that my vision was too focused straight ahead causing me to lose track of Swift Arrow. My eyes swept the thick forest foliage as my head turned to the right, then to the left. It seemed like I was alone until my backbone felt as if an icicle was traveling along its length.

“Instinctively I turned around, my face drained of blood, leaving it clammy and cool. I must have looked as pale as a ghost when I saw Swift Arrow directly behind me, only a few yards away, with his bow drawn, arrow nocked, and aiming directly at me. His smile was distorted and frightening.

          The wind blew through the trees and the raven feathers attached to my bow spun and twilled about in the breeze as if in a frenzy of warning. I could tell that Swift Arrow was distracted by them and feared them. They made him think of Raven Feather, so he paused, doubt collapsing his smile. He released the tension on his bow string, spit, turned, and walked away.

“That’s how the excitement of hunting, with Swift Arrow, was stripped from me. I could hardly breathe, and then I realized that I was holding my breath. I exhaled, breathed deeply to calm myself, but remained unable to do so because of the shock of how close I had come to a sudden death.

“I nearly broke my neck as I quickly turned toward a voice that came from behind some dense bushes.”

Gray Cloud said, “No worry. Bloody Hands warn Swift Arrow no harm you. But you safe most due to fear of bad spirits come to Swift Arrow if harm you.”

“Raven Feathers is a much feared but needed for healing and spiritual leader. The people believe that although she is old, she is scaring evil spirits away from the village and her medicines make her power grow with her age. You not see that she oldest person in village? You safety strong for her anger to anyone that harm her new son. She is only one Bloody Hands fears. She only one who stare into eyes of Bloody Hands and not turn away. It Bloody Hands that turns away,” Gray Cloud explained.

I told Gray Cloud that she used to be scary to me, too, but the more I got to know her, the more I liked her, and the less fear I had. I also said she is kind to me.”

“She kind because spirits like you, ravens like you.” Gray Cloud paused, then added, “She use medicine to heal or to hurt. She needed for healing and magic spells to protect village. No one know how old she is. No one know how powerful she is. That why some say she a witch. She get visions, can make terrible things happen, make good, too. She a spirit talker.”

I thought Raven Feathers was the smartest person I’d ever known that was without a white man’s education. She was the unchallenged queen of forest living and unexplainable spiritualism that involved seeing and communication with certain spirits. She had a fertile and inventive mind. She invented the ‘hammock’ which was unknown to European and American colonists. I told myself that I would build one when I escaped and made it back to home. Raven Feathers made one for me. It was comfortable and from two tree outside the hot longhouse where the cooler night air made sleep easy. She already had one for herself, so she and I fell asleep quickly. The village children liked them best. Older people had difficulty with them tipping over. Raven Feathers, not acting her age, simply sat on hers, then lifted her feet, trucked her head back and lay down with no problem.

“Inventions, Raven Feathers once told me, runs in her family, on the maternal side. Her far distant grandmother started the system of ‘interplanting’ with her own garden. One day she was about to gather stick poles for her green beans to grow upward. Suddenly she threw down the few sticks she had and went back to her personal garden. She planted corn and let it grow for a half moon, then planted her beans beside the corn stalks. The corn stalks were the poles for the beans to cling to and grow upward. It was such a great idea that it was used, routinely, from then on. Her knowledge of plant life and the things she could do with plants would be the envy of any European botanist of her time, most of whom didn’t know half as much as she knew.

“One day when I returned from bathing in the lake, Raven Feathers told me the story that the Mohawk Indians laughed about. She said that when the first people came to the eastern shore (I thought she meant the Pilgrims) that they saw the Indians as crazy because they bathed frequently. To the Pilgrims, good hygiene simply meant changing and washing their underclothes often. They did not bathe and as a result they were sarcastically called ‘The Smelly People,’ especially the men who not only sweated the most, but also got the dirtiest. The Mohawk and other easter tribes tried for years to get them to bathe. When they did, it was the Pilgrim women that gave their great thanks to their Indian neighbors. From then onward it became a man’s necessary custom.”

                                      *******

“One day a hunting group of potential warriors was arranged by Gray Cloud. He invited me to come along for the experience though I could not become a warrior. Then he warned me that the hunters would be moving fast and would not wait for me if I slowed them down. They set a fast pace and quickly outdistanced me. I couldn’t move as quickly as they moved and, at the same time be quiet, so I progressed slowly. Gray Cloud sent small groups in different directions, then came back for me. It gave me a chance to talk to Gray Cloud, alone. He and I walked far behind the potential warrior apprentices. Soon they were out of sight. We talked and I learned more about the tribes daily lives and customs. We were talking quietly, nearly whispering, our only competition with sounds coming from chattering squirrels, birds and the soft whispers of emerald leaves blowing in a mild breeze.

“So why do you think she likes me?”

“Dead son. Like you. Same age when die.”

“She really sees me as her dead son?”

“No. She pray to spirit world so dead son come back as you, “Gray Cloud said, then shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he did not understand either.

          He talking about life in the village, things I should know, things I need to learn, people to know and their duties. He was friendly and informative when I asked questions. Next to Raven Feathers, I liked him best.”

                                                *******

“Suddenly, screams like pine needles stabbed at our ears. We grimaced, search around us, then dashed deeper into the forest to catch up to the hunters and to follow the sound of the screams. In seconds we arrived at the origin of the screams. There we saw a slim body wreathing with pain in the shallow creek.

“Gray Cloud gasped at the sight of Rabbit Runs lying in the rocky creek bed, blood staining the water red from his cuts and broken leg. I noticed the jagged, white part of Rabbit Runs’ shinbone poking through his darkly tanned skin. I winced at the sight of it. Blood was dripping in the water making the shape of a floating red ribbon. I felt sympathy for him. It’s the sort of break that could cripple a boy for life, impairing his ability to run, hunt, and fight. He’ll feel worthless if that happens, I thought, and the mental injury might be worse than the physical damage.

Gray Cloud, being the only adult leader in the group, as well as the only true warrior, took charge immediately.

The boy could not talk due to the excruciating pain, and when his neck muscles relaxed, his head rolled to one side, unconscious. He had been clenching his teeth so tightly that, even unconscienced, his teeth remain clenched. Gray Cloud picked up a short stick, pried open the boy’s mouth and placed the stick between his teeth so he could bite down on it and not chip his teeth.

“What happened?” Gray Cloud asked as he looked at Swift Arrow.

          “Rabbit Runs climbed that boulder by the creek — he pointed to it — and at the top he wanted to jump over the creek below. He slipped on the wet moss.”

Trying to stay out of the way, I walked to the boulder, stood on my toes, and peered at the top of it. Sure enough, there were scuff marks and skid marks in the moss indicating where Rabbit Runs’ foot had slipped. I eased my suspicion of Swift Arrow having something to do with Rabbit Runs’ injury. The skid marks appeared to indicate that Swift Arrow was telling the truth.

 When I returned, Gray Cloud appeared aware of my visit to the boulder and asked, “Was the moss moist? Was the moss rubbed away all the way to the boulder’s bare stone? Was the dirt surrounding the skid mark a darker color that the surrounding dirt?”

“Yes,” I said, now understanding the meaning of the last question. The darker colored dirt would indicate moisture content and it would look chestnut brown while the dry dirt would appear light brown.

I could see suspicion forming in Gray Cloud’s eyes and face, then abruptly he shrugged his shoulders.

Now I was confused and regained my suspicion.

Gray Cloud climbed to the top of the boulder for a better view, studied the top of the front side of the boulder, then the other sides and the top of the boulder.

When he returned, he said, “I think Rabbit Runs no want get moccasins wet. He want jump over water from top of boulder. He climb to top, maybe want to show bravery. He run to front edge of boulder. He try jump over narrow part of creek, but slip. Fall into rocky creek. Leg caught in two rocks. He lose balance and body twist when fall. Bone break. After break, body still moving but not leg. Leg come out of rocks after break. See mud between rocks? Is where foot stuck between them?” He pointed to it. I looked. The calm water between the rocks was still cloudy with mud.

This was said in the Seneca language for all to hear. It cleared Swift Arrow of our suspicions. But simply by asking those questions of me, I knew that Gray Cloud disliked and didn’t trust Swift Arrow.

“I tell you it wrong let Rabbit Runs hunt. He too young, weak, foolish baby. Want to show off,” Swift Arrow expressed bitterly to Gray Cloud in the Iroquois language. They continued to speak in their own language, sometimes heated, but most of which I understood. The biggest mistake was Swift Arrow challenging Gray Cloud.

“It how young ones learn, Swift Arrow, scolded Gray Cloud. Remember you first hunt? I do. You young, foolish, too. Now you older but still too much foolish,” was Gray Clouds retort, then he added, “Send boy to village. Tell Raven Feathers what happen. We need her soon.”

Swift Arrow walked away, grumbling, as he looked around at the other young hunters.

“We come to hunt. Let us go hunt,” Swift Arrow said to the group, expecting them to follow him, even though Gray Cloud was the leader. Then Swift Arrow yelled, “Rabbit Runs’ girl screams scare animals away. He ruined hunt. We go to village. He selected one of the fastest boys to run to the village.

There was some muted laughter, but most of the hunters were quiet as they turned and walked away with Swift Arrow.

As they walked away, I heard muted laughter, and Gray Cloud’s face turned red with anger. I pretended that I didn’t notice.

“Long Knife,” Gray Cloud shouted, “give me the rope — in cases of emergency someone was always chosen to be the rope carrier. “I need to make a body carry to get Rabbit Runs back to the village.” Gray Cloud yelled out an order for six of the young, more muscled boys to stay behind as Swift Arrow and the other boys departed with some grumbling from Swift Arrow. The six boys would help carry Rabbit Runs back to the village.

Gray Cloud looked at me and ordered, “Black Kettle. Cut two sturdy, sapling poles.  We lash rope around. Make rope bed to carry.”

I was allowed to carry a knife and tomahawk now, so I did the job promptly. I cut two saplings, each end being about a forearm longer than the boy was tall. This extra length would give the litter carriers a good place to hold onto. The saplings were about three fingers thick and would bend but not break. I used my tomahawk to make easy work of the cutting, then rushed to Gray Cloud.

Gray Cloud still attending to Rabbit Runs. Long Knife had thrown the rope on the ground at the six litter carriers’ feet which showed great disrespect to Gray Cloud. He asked me to take over the work. His face was as red as a hot coal from a campfire. I heard his teeth grinding. His strides were long, quick, and determined. When he reached Long Knife, he slapped him so hard that Long Knife dropped to the ground. Gray Cloud sat on his chest, knees on both side of his body and the boy’s arm pinned under him. He pulled out his knife. The boy was begging not to have his throat cut. Gray Cloud lowered the knife and started cutting the hair off Long Knife’s head. It was a mark of severe shame and disrespect. The boy screamed for him to stop, and he did stop, when the boy was bald headed.

A few yards away Swift Arrow and his group had turned around as they waited for Long Knife. They were stunned into silence matched only by bulging eyes and gaping mouths.

Gray Cloud stood with his foot on Long Knife’s chest holding him down. Then Gray Cloud started walking slowly toward Swift Arrow. He walked a few feet from Swift Arrow, his voice carried a clearly threatening tone as he yelled, “Who next? You Swift Arrow? You be next? You be bald for shaming behavior. Then he looked at the other boys. “You follow Swift Arrow you no be trusted warrior. Warrior be loyal, have discipline, obey elders, show respect, courage and no be weak. Swift Arrow no be good apprentice. No be good warrior. He make father sad.  Bloody Hands tell me punish boys who no respect elders and leaders. He stared at Swift Arrow saying, “You always complain. You mean. You want blame others. Who be next? Swift Arrow? No. He blame some of you. He brag but do nothing of courage. Angers father.”

The boys all turned and ran towards the village.

Long knife stood but hadn’t moved. He was too scared to move or talk.

Gray Cloud put his hand on Long Knife’s shoulder and said, “You great shame. Father punish. Go.”

Swift Arrow started to raise his bow and arrow, but faster than the eye could see, Gray Cloud pulled out his tomahawk and threw it at Swift Arrow. Swift Arrow fell to the ground looking upward. The tomahawk was embedded in the tree where he had been standing. It was about chest high. He got up quickly, had tears in his eyes, frightened, panicked and sprinted away.

 I had already picked up the rope and was lashing it around the poles until I stopped to watch Gray Cloud’s angry actions. I was pleased.

Gray Cloud returned and confronted the six boys. “Who want be warrior?” They all raised their hands. “No be warrior if act like you better than elders. I must tell Long Knife’s father. Long Knife will be punished by He-Swims-Much. No see him tomorrow. Day for punish.” He stared at the boys. “You father important man, no make you important boy. Be respectful of elders. Be important man someday.”

I wound the rope around the two poles that were held about three feet apart, making what would be an uncomfortable rope bed for Rabbit Runs’ unconscious body. Now those six boys, three on each side, could carry him back to the village.

Rabbit Runs regained consciousness, groaned, then grimaced with pain. Gray Cloud looked around the ground, found a sturdy, smallish branch and placed it between Rabbit Runs’ teeth so that grinding his teeth in pain would not chip or break any of them.

Gray Cloud, talking low, said, “Swift Arrow be problem much.” Then Gray Cloud pointed to his head and made a sign that must have meant ‘crazy.’

“Bloody Hands will demand report about son. What I say make him angry at son. Will punish son. Son blame me and you, maybe other boys. Bloody Hands no be fooled by foolish boy. Foolish much.”

                                       *******

“When Gray Cloud, me and the boys carrying the litter, entered the village it was long after the others. Gray Cloud directed the litter carriers to Raven Feathers’ lodge. She was standing next to the entrance of her longhouse living space. The boys brought their hurt friend to her. The boys set Rabbit Runs gently on the ground. Raven Feathers showed no emotion, rather a neutral face as if it were just another day in the life of a healer, like she was to remove a sliver from a toe. Upon getting a closer look, her expression changed drastically. She stared at the protruding white shin bone and the agonizingly twisted face of the Rabbit Runs.

          She approached the boy, but noticed that the onlookers, especially the boy’s mom and dad were crowding the space near their son. She said something sharp, authoritative, and demanded that they moved away with the other curious villagers who were not so close.

The litter was too big and awkward to carry into her area of the longhouse, so she let him stay on the grass. As he lay there the sun’s rays glistened off the profuse drops of sweat. When a drop of sweat ran across the boy’s forehead, it looked as if it were a clear pearl that was trembling.

           “Boy no more run,” Raven Feathers whispered softly to Gray Cloud, which I was close enough to hear. She said, “He need medicine for pain.” She already had Jimson Weed cold tea prepared. She had him drink it slowly to reduce the pain. We waited but there was no visible effect on reducing the pain.

          She asked me to go to her supplies, in the longhouse, and prepare another tea made from the powdered Jimson Weed, only stronger, the first doss having been too weak. I returned with it as quickly as possible. I thought, damn good thing it’s already been powdered and just needed water. If there was time, Raven Feathers usually made the tea warm, which is easier to swallow and more comforting as it enters the stomach. Rabbit Runs got the second, stronger doss of the tea.”

          I paused to tell the kids that Raven Feathers was amazing,

 With her herbal medicines. She had made many medicinal discoveries that European and American doctors didn’t know about yet for several decades.

          Gray Cloud whispered to Raven Feathers, “How Rabbit Runs grow and be warrior if leg bad?

          She whispered, “Maybe no fix. Do bad cut and boy die many bloody.”

Gray Cloud made no reply, just looked sadly at the groaning, tearful boy.

Raven Feathers said she needed more of something. “Why didn’t you ask me. I could have gotten that when I got the powdered Willow bark?” She blurted out the words, “We talk soon. Only I get.”

 She return quickly with a liquid solution which she had also mixed prior to our arrival. She held it to Rabbit Runs’ contorted lips. He was semi-conscious, but he drank slowly in between episodes of pain. When he coughed, he turned his head and accidentally sprayed the liquid on my face. “No taste!” she yelled at me, then added, “Wipe off now. No mouth.” Then she returned to attending Rabbit Runs. Gray Cloud threw me his headband and I wipe my face off with it.

“Ahk-noh-eh (Mother),” I whispered to Raven Feathers, “will you fix? Make straight like arrow?”

Raven Feathers looked distracted. She stared at me; her eyes moist but a minor smile was on her face; a rare expression from her. It certainly was not a situation for a smile, I thought. I saw Gray Cloud staring at me and he, also, smiled. I was confused by their reactions.

My confusion ended when Raven Feathers pointed to herself and said, “Me mother you?” When she pointed at herself, she said, ‘Me,’ and when she pointed to me she said, in English, ‘son.’

          I had grown to like her but had never called her ‘mother.’ She cherished my feelings for her as I, for the first time, had called her mother. She attended to the boy making him swallow more medicine, then he got quiet and drifted into an unconsciousness sleep.

I wondered; What kind of herb was used in that medicine. A medicine I was not allowed to get for her. Whatever it was had worked fast. I had many questions to ask her and much to learn from her in coming days.

She looked up at Gray Cloud and I. Sadness etched in her deeply wrinkled face and squinting eyes. The sadness was quickly replaced by a worried, and stressful appearance. I thought that perhaps in all her life, she may never have had to treat and heal a compound bone fracture, or she acted scared because she had seen it done before and it ended tragically when a blood vessel was accidentally punctured, and the patient bled to death. At that moment, I was shocked to see, for the first time, fear in her eyes. She stood up next to where I and Gray Cloud were kneeling. She asked us to stand up, then to stand in front of her so the curious on-lookers could not see her face or hear her as she reported, “No can fix to be straight bone. Maybe try. Boy maybe die. Never do this bad leg before. I boy live he limp. Bad.”

I would never see that look of fear again as she looked up into the trees, outstretched her arms and talked in her spirit language. I had no idea what she was saying until Gray Cloud leaned toward me and told me that she was telling the ravens to chase any bad spirits away and asking the good spirits for wisdom, skill, and healing.

I approached her shoulder and whispered, “Mother, I can fix but need help.”

She turned to me in surprise, placing her hand on my shoulder and said with surprise, “You know? I now ever fix bones when one pushes into skin and can see it. Much time ago I see. Boy die. Much bad to watch.”

“Yes. I saw a white doctor, a healer, do it. I saw Doctor Hanley fix a broken bone like this, but it is very painful and risky especially if a big blood tube carrying much blood breaks. Her name for an artery was ‘a big inside tube.’ I turned to Gray Cloud and said. “We need your help, your strength to fix leg. He was confused but nodded his agreement.”

Raven Feathers, Gray Cloud, and I formed a shoulder to shoulder circle. Raven Feathers mumbled, “Tell,” meaning that I was to explain it to her and Gray Cloud about fixing the broken leg. I whispered my explanation.

The boy’s mother was crying now. She saw the concern on our faces. Her husband had his hand around her shoulder, an exceedingly rare moment of public affection for Indians. Such expressions of pain, love or even good feelings were to be conducted by adults when out of sight and in private. The tribe of Iroquois dealt with many emotions as weaknesses, so the result was a tradition of stoicism, the endurance of pain without displaying feelings or complaining. Showing weakness was to be avoided. It was not honorable. The gathering of villagers increased and was gathering around us quickly. The villagers had been constantly pushing forward to see the boy or to console the boy’s parents. Raven Feathers shouted something angrily and impatiently. She said it so fast and harshly that I only understood when the crowd suddenly stepped away from us with frightened expressions capturing their shocked faces.

I explained to Gray Cloud and Raven Feathers that we needed two straight and barkless sticks about as long as the boy’s leg. We can use the poles we used to carry the boy I said to Gray Cloud, so he cut the two lengths, then shaved off the bark. Next he looked for rough spots and shaved them smooth.

Then I explained to Raven Feathers that I needed four leather cords or thin, braided rope to tie the sticks to his shin bone to keep it straight, once we get it straight. I explained again how to get the bones together and straight. She rushed to her lodge and brought back thin and tough short leather cords. While she was gone, Gray Cloud asked questions, but I told him I’d have to answer his questions later.

I became aware of an increasing number villagers gathering around us, again. Then a booming voice commanded the crowd to go home and only relatives could stay. Rabbit Runs’ father, Tall Tree, had that commanding voice, like an echo from deep within a cave. The crowd scattered quickly, but not far enough for Raven Feathers. She asked Rabbit Runs’ father to carry Rabbit Runs into her longhouse area. Without the litter poles it was easily accomplished. This eliminated the curious and persistent villagers from crowded and distracting their procedures.

Raven Feathers invited Rabbit Runs’ mother (Flower that Blooms) and father to stay inside as observers, but told them to stay out of our way, then said, “Black Kettle do white man’s way. Rabbit Runs may run if bone straight. I no do bone healing before. Mostly bone is let heal crooked. Black Kettle show me new way to fix. I learn.”

That’s when I started feeling the sweat pouring down my brow, then dripping off steadily. Raven Feathers put me in a dangerous place. If the boy died, I’d die, too, I thought. Then I realized that I, not Raven Feathers, had placed myself in this risky position by trying to help Raven Feathers. I didn’t want the blame for failure to fall on her excellent reputation.

I could feel many eyes on me; some with hope, some with fear, some with disbelief, some with steadfast dislike, and worse, some with thoughts of injuring or killing me. I was an outsider and a white man, two characteristics that didn’t gain trust easily amongst the Indians of any Iroquois nation.

I had the sticks and four leather cords read. Raven Feathers quickly, quietly, almost unnoticed, went to a dark corner of her room where some of her medicines were covered with beaver pelts. She returned with a bowl in her hands containing an unusual color and thickness of liquid that she slowly poured between Rabbit Runs’ lips until his swallowing reflex started. She did it again at my request because in a while I knew that his pain would be much greater. I explained how I needed someone strong to hold Rabbit Runs under both arm pits so that he would not slide too much. The father and mother volunteered to do that job. I looked at the mother and my doubts ended. She was not a little lady. The image I got was of unladylike strength. The mother and father would pull Rabbit Runs’ shoulders toward themselves as Gray Cloud pulled the injured leg in the opposite direction, toward himself, with the uninjured leg staked down at the ankle, knee, and upper thigh to minimize as much movement as possible. Gray Cloud would be pulling the injured leg to straighten it. Raven Feathers wanted to learn the procedure, so she would place the two bones by feeling the bones and putting them together like a puzzle piece as I guided her.

I showed her my hands, knuckles upward at waist level with my fingers spread. Then I slowly turned both hands, fingers nearly touching and pushed the fingers in one hand into the spaces between the fingers in the other hand. “Bone, like this,” I said, then, “You feel bones touching. I felt the bones of her forearm as an example. She nodded that she understood. Then I stated, “You must feel when the broken parts fit like my fingers fitted together.” When she set the two bones together for a good fit, like a piece of a puzzle, I would immediately place the two stick supports on each side of the leg and fasten them with the leather cords. One cord at the top of the sticks, one at the bottom and the other two, close to the break, one upper and one lower to the break. Then Gray Cloud would be able to release the leg stretching pressure.

Raven Feathers and got on our knees next to Gray Cloud. All of us were not being looked at kindly by the boy’s mother. I thought, This must be fearfully foreign to them. Maybe they thought it was witchcraft. This could be their excuse to punish me severely, despite Raven Feathers’s influence. Raven Feathers was risking most of her authority and respect by allowing me to proceed. When the leg was stretched, Gray Cloud pulling it in his direction and the mother and father pulling the boy’s shoulder in the opposite direction, the two bones would now separate. When those three people pulled, the bones separated nicely but the boy’s head popped up and he screamed. Luckily, he then passed out. Raven Feathers pushed the bone together as if they were two pieces of a puzzle. She looked at me, worried. I smiled to let her know that she accomplished the good fit. She bandaged the leg with a poultice, wrapped it with sheet of thin leather, and then I tied the sticks, leg braces, to both sides of his leg. I was now conscious of the piercing screams of agony, again coming from Rabbit Runs as he regained consciousness. The screams were thunder to my head and lightning to my eyes. None of us stopped working. Rabbit Runs passed out, again, from the terrible pain. Raven Feathers picked up the bowl of mystery medicine, looked at me and I nodded. She poured the medicine into the boy’s mouth. Luckily, his swallowing reflex worked. His face relaxed which meant he was no longer in pain.

As Raven Feathers was cleaning the flesh wound and bandaging it, I reminded her that the pain would come back when the medicine wore of and the pain would be like a sudden and violent storm with lightening striking him. I knew right away that I worded that wrong. She acted terrible surprised. Gray Cloud did, too. I explained that the pain would be terrible, but lightening was not going to strike him.

Fear entered Raven Feathers’s eyes as she looked sideways at me, as if to say, “This better work, or we are in much trouble.”

I nodded my head at her showing that I understood.

I explained to Raven Feathers that Rabbit Runs could not walk on the leg for about three full-moons and that he would need a crutch to get around the village. I explained what a crutch was, then emphasized that he must not put any weight on that leg or it might separate the bones again.

Raven Feathers explained this to Rabbit Runs’ mother and father because I did not want to chance my basic use of their language for fear of a mistake in understanding what I said.

Gray Cloud put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You now brother,” Snyah-da-oh, and Snyah-da-oh (friend)which brought a grateful smile to my face. He smiled back at me. I said, “Nyah-weh, Thank you.”

The mother, Flower that Blooms, and the father, Tall Tree, were more skeptical, but Raven Feathers said a few words and Tall Tree picked up his unconscious son and gently carried him to their shelter. Raven Feathers’ had described a crutch and how it would work, otherwise only a pole would be used which was not as reliable as a white man’s crutch that fitted in the arm pit.”

I paused the story at that point because I saw anxious faces with questions.

                                      *******

“Da, why did you call her mother? Didn’t you want to return to your real mother?” asked Lily.

“Well, Raven Feathers was treating me much more kindly. We were developing a close friendship. We liked each other, protected, and helped each other, so I was looking at her as a grandmother until I could get back to my own family.”

“Did Gray Cloud really want you to be his brother?” asked Slone.

“He was telling me that he wanted to be good friends and that he would not try to avoid me as Swift Arrow and his friends were doing.”

Slone: “What happened to Swift Arrow and the hunt?”

“I was too busy to even think about Swift Arrow, or the other hunters until I saw him with his father in the gathering of villager at the center of the village. Later that day I heard that he and his friends returned with easily shot animals: nine or ten rabbits, a turkey, and a dozen squirrels. No deer was killed. Swift Arrow wanted so much to brag about his skills but preferred to taunt me. He was carrying two rabbits as he looked upon me as if I were in the original hunting party to prevent him from being successful.”

Lily teased, saying, “Easily hunted animals? I seem to remember that you missed two shots at two sitting rabbits. Right Da?”

A big smile stretched her lips as if they were made of gum.

Slone giggled quietly, trying to hide it, then surprised Lily and I by saying, “Maybe you should have been renamed as ‘Sitting Rabbit Laughs.”

“That was funny, Slone, but I was hoping that fact would be forgotten.”

Both children laughed at me. It was a good moment for us.

“As I said, Swift Arrow was mean. As he walked with his father, he yelled to Gray Cloud, “Rabbit Runs’ scream like girl. He chase deer away.”

Bloody Hands turned his head and spoke angrily to his son.

Then Swift Arrow walked with his head looking down at the ground as if he were a farmer studying the dirt.

I turned to console Gray Cloud as he stared at Swift Arrow walking away with his father. It was only then that I saw Gray Clouds resting his hand on the butt of his knife. It was an unconscious reaction to his dislike of Swift Arrow. From then on, he was always friendly with me and seemed to help soften the overwhelmingly hostility toward me.

A brief time later, Bloody Hands approached Gray Cloud as I walked away. Gray Cloud informed me that Bloody Hands apologized for his son’s nasty comment. At that time, I was curious why the two of them were friends. Their relationship seemed like it would be adversarial, plus being second-in-command as a former white child added to the mystery.”

                                       CHAPTER 11

“Winter arrived and, this being my first winter with the tribe, I was surprised by how boring winters are for the Indians. Hunting, cooking, sleeping, making repairs, and keeping warm occupied them. It was a time of less meat and less variety of plants used for food. Dried corn kernels and powdered corn kernels used to make a paste so biscuits could be made, then eaten with honey, were usually plentiful.

“Children passed the days helping their families and getting to play with friends in the snow. They played games like ‘snow snakes’ (a long trough was dug in the snow. Water poured lightly in the bottom and when frozen the children would find a straight stick, peel the bark off it, for less friction, and throw it into the trough to see whose stick traveled the farthest), and snowball fights for amusement. They frequently made jokes about the yellow streaks in the snow that boys and men made. It was a time for great storytelling, great bragging, and laughter except when there was a severe shortage of meat.”

I paused at this laughable moment, remained quiet and stared at the kids. Slone, with a smirk of mischief blurted, “Bettcha you can’t make yellow streaks in the snow.”

“Ugh!” Lily growled. You are so gross.”

“The teacher says that a ‘gross’ is equal to 144 of something.

“Yeah, you are gross multiplied by 144. Yuck.

“In the False Face Society, to which Raven Feathers belonged, a ‘false face’ was a scary face image of a distorted, ugly, yet fierce face. It was these false face masks that women made that were used to scare away evil spirits. The ‘false faces’ supposedly protected the one wearing it, and the clan that person belonged to. Raven Feathers was part of the ‘False Face Society.’

“During the easy winter months is when I carved the round, wooden medallion a “False Face’ for Raven Feathers. I carved it out of a single, round piece of beech wood that I chopped off the end of a suitable sized branch. It was about as big as my two thumbs held side-by-side but had a round shape. It was about the thickness of my little finger. I drew a ‘False Face’ on it with a tiny, sharp sliver of obsidian rock, then carved everything else away from the False Face to half the thickness of the wood. That made the scary looking mask stand out from the surrounding wood. The mask was centered in the wooden circle and filled most of the space in the wooden circle. Slitted eyes, angry mouth, with carved drops of blood dripping down from the eyes and mouth, as well as blood drops made to look as if they were dripping from under the mask. Raven Feathers provided me with red coloring made from dried beet roots, berries, and red clay to make the blood droplets. The mask was painted black, the eye holes red. Raven Feathers showed me how to make black paint with charcoal, blackberries, and melted tree sap. The recessed base of the mask was brown made from powdered, rotted roots, powdered bark mixed with blueberries and blackberries juice. A small hole half way between the mask and the top edge of the medallion was made for a leather cord. I burned the small hole into the wood a little at a time using small embers and an obsidian sliver. The medallion was dried in the sun, then a thin layer of animal fat was rubbed on the front, back and sides to make it waterproof. I polished it until it shined in the sun. I tied a small loop of thin leather into the hole, then tied a larger loop making the necklace so it would lie flat on her chest. Now the necklace medallion would lie flat, not twisted, on her chest. Once given to her, I never saw it again, although I did see the thin, leather cord going around her neck and go inside her tunic.

“I never saw her remove the leather necklace on which I carved a false face to protect her. Not that she needed it. Sometimes she would face me, wrap her hand around the wooden medallion and say, “Mother,” with a smile that she rarely offered to others. It was a restrained smile, her eyes looking far-away at a mystery mountain with dark valleys, bumps, cervices, ruled by skin discoloration and plenty of wrinkles. Her chin and neck took the shape of soft, stretched skin, some flabbiness.

“How come you never saw it again?” interjected Slone as he looked at me with his sparkling, curious, but mostly mischievous eyes.

“You know why. You’re just being a brat.”

“Oh yeah? Where was it hiding,” you know-it-all.

I heard Lily whisper in his ear, “It’s hidden by her breasts. Don’t act stupid.”

“You certainly couldn’t do it with that flat chest of yours.”

“OK. Enough of that,” I demanded.

She walked slowly, no matter what the distance, except one time when I saw her trot to the forest at a quick pace. She was well hidden, but I could hear her grunting. Must have been an upset stomach, I thought. I turned and walked away quickly, thinking of the time when the warriors had drunk foul water and had to make quick trips to the forest in the middle of the night.

One mild winter day, close to springtime, she had me stand by a tree, my back against it, while she measured my shoulders, chest, waist, and leg length and well as the length and width of my feet. She spent most of the remaining winter month and early spring cutting, sewing, though she couldn’t do it for long with stiffening fingers. She was also adorning the leather clothing she was making for me. Her special focus was on two sets of moccasins in which she sewed the soles with a double layer of deer-hide to act as a better cushion and, also, to make them last longer. She was preparing the cloths I’d be wearing when I escaped and had to run long distances over rough land.

One night in April we sat around the fire talking.  I was now able to speak the language basics and well enough to be understood, most of the time. I was whittling a toy canoe during a pause in our conversation. She spoke softly to me. “You go soon when sweet-water season come. You run fast. More fast to Swift Arrow. Find home. Bad ones want hurt you. Kill son.”

“Swift Arrow? He’s not a fighter. He knows nothing of strategy. He rushes into situation carelessly, ten depends on his father to fix his mistakes. His false reputation covers his inadequate leadership, following order, being thoughtful, and responsible to his family, his clan, and his village.”

“He an’ friends, Gray Cloud say, no good enough forest skills or hunting skill. Not know much. Then she said, ‘gok-wan-osde   hogwe-da-ege.’ I didn’t know specialized words, just general, everyday usage words so I shrugged my shoulders and placed my palms upward indicating I didn’t know the words. In English she said, ‘selfish, bad person.’” That came at me as clear as the sky. The added, wear new clothes when run. Soft, lose, light. Keep warm when cold nights an’ cool days. I tell when you run home.”

Sweet water? That was what the village called the sap from Sugar Maple trees. They used the ‘sweet water’ to make maple syrup. This is ‘maple syrup season’ for them. Wasn’t that about the end of February and beginning of March, depending on weather conditions in any year, I pondered. How do I tell the month we are in? I’d have to update and revise my calendar pole. I’d neglected it. Most of my slices on the pole were deep but narrow. Though it was done easily, it reminded me of my need to escape. The barkless pole was pale yellow. It used to be sticky to handle but over the days, handling it at least once a day, it was now smooth with the stickiness of the sap gone. How long I have been here and how much longer I’d be here were not important questions any longer. ‘Soon’ was the wonderful word I longed to hear.

“The villagers were unusually busy collecting the Sugar Maple sweet water, then boiling it all day and all night to transform the thin sap into a thick maple syrup. I was amazed at how much ‘sweet water’ it took to only get about a quart of syrup. I was also amazed that the sweet water had to simmer over a fire all day and all night. It was a lengthy process, tiring, and demanding, but was worth it to them when trading for needed supplies. The elite Indians did not participate: The chief, his wife and kids, Bloody Hands and son, the warriors, and the apprentice warriors. Raven Feathers had a choice to volunteer or not to volunteer. Older villagers tended not to volunteer.

“One night I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind drifted like a rock rolling downhill, hitting obstacles and bounced in unpredictably different directions. I was abducted at our farm in western Pennsylvania. It was during the month of July. I could tell by the position of the sun that we travelled mostly westward, a week or two. I lost track of time due to exhaustion and confusing thoughts. So, the way home had to be mostly eastward. Going east should be easy enough; running to greet the rising sun as it gets out of the horizon bed and saying good night to the setting sun as it goes to bed, though, maybe not as easy as my mind was determined to convince me that it is. Much more difficult would be avoiding the dangers of being seen, recaptured, or killed by Indians or animals or rogue characters, both white and Indian. Plus, the hostile ruggedness of the land, and the weather conditions would all be worse than determining which direction I was traveling.

“So, two weeks later the whole Seneca village was occupied with collecting maple tree sap and turning it into maple syrup. Mostly everyone in the village, except the warriors and their apprentices contributed. The warriors, especially the apprentices got daily instruction in forestry skills, hunting skills, combat strategy and weapons skills. Bloody Hands and Gray Cloud test them occasionally and dismissed the questionable ones.

 “Raven Feathers had insisted that I stay with her, sending away the ones who wanted me to work collecting the ‘sweet water.’ She said she needed me to help her, although the real reason was so I could be with her to plan my escape. I couldn’t simply wake up one night and run.

“It was now late March and I thought I’d be escaping soon, but suddenly, unexpectedly, and disappointingly, Raven Feathers changed her mind. She said, “No good go now. Bad days.” She emphasized her message by pointing at me, then saying, “During ‘sweet water' days people no sleep. Maybe see you run. Sweet Water fires burn all day, all night. Much light in village. Need keep fire all time. Fires burn all day, all night. They see you run, you die.”

With extreme frustration I pounded my fists into the ground, then I made myself be calm. I, again, thought about what she said and realized that my frustration came from the fact that her reasons were good ones, but I was still irritated by the delay. I knew she was right and that I should leave in early spring. Actually, it was more ideal due to the warmer weather, growing plant life, and the melting of snow and ice. She reminded me that spring was also a better time to collect wild plant food, better for hiding as the trees bloom with leaves, bushes become lush, hunting was much easier, thought I doubted that I’d have time for that. The nights would be warmer for greater comfort because, instead of chilly nights, there would be cool nights. Melting snow and ice would make walking and running easier and drinking water would be plentiful. “You are correct,” Raven Feathers. Escape in springtime.”

I slid nearer to my calendar pole and grabbed it. I needed something physical to help me calm down further since my heartbeat was still racing. My calendar pole was one of many thin, flexible sapling poles used for building the longhouses. They were all between three and four feet long. I’d been using them to keep track of the days and months since I was captured. I started it by making two weeks of slices since that was the approximate time it took to arrive here. From then on, I made a slice for each day I was there. Thirty slices made a month. It wasn’t exact since every month doesn’t have thirty days, but it was close enough to easily work with. That would put me close enough to the number of months that I was there. The number of slices indicated that the present month was March, so now I’d been there for eight months. I even had my seventeenth birthday.

I started having doubts, followed by confusion. “I don’t want to leave you,” I said to Raven Feathers, “but my family must think I’m dead.”

“Go family in spring. Mother of plants reborn. Then go real mother, father.” Her eyes grew misty.

After all the help she’d given me, even saving my life, I had made her cry. When she looked at me, I made the sign for ‘stupid’ then the sign for ‘fool’ and pointed at myself. She grinned and made the signs for ‘good son.’”

          “We stayed awake late into the morning. I told her about my parents and what the farm life was like. She wanted to know about the animals that gave the white liquid which most settlers drank. I explained that the animal was a cow and fed her babies with the white liquid. So white women tried it and it worked for feeding their own babies, particularly if the mom had no milk to give a baby. She rubbed her own breasts and looked disgusted, then made the signs for ‘stupid’ and ‘foolish’ again.

          “She was also curious about the animals that pushed eggs out or their rear end, then the settlers ate it. I explained as well as I could, telling her that the animal was a bird called a chicken and it laid eggs like all other birds but people ate what was inside of the eggs after cooking it. She understood, then laughed. There was silence as we were both thinking. Suddenly the both of us burst out in side-splitting laughter, like Slone and Lily do when they can produce a loud fart. Laughing was a strange expression for her. It did not happen often in her long life according to the off and on village gossip and storytelling. Gray Cloud had explained much information to me about the village, the villagers, the leaders, warrior, customs, and traditions.

“Then Raven Feathers informed me about some of her secrets as a healer and as a spirit woman. Ravens were normally thought to carry bad spirits. So, too harm a raven was to ask for trouble from the evil spirit world. It would be like trying to harm an evil spirit. The evil spirit would then visit that person in the night, causing harm to them and family members if the harm were severe enough. Since Raven Feathers used the ravens to chase away the garden-robbing crows and other animal thieves as she commanded them to do, they understood that she was a sacred, with greater powers and they obeyed, respected, and also feared that she could use greater spirits to harm them. Since she didn’t do that, the ravens and she became allies. And would obey her commands, especially since she also commanded powerful good spirits. She had a conspiracy or unkindness of nearby ravens. Before you ask, those two names are the official names of a flock of ravens, just as ‘a murder of crows’ is a flock of crows. A murder of crows flew overhead.” I don’t know how or why they got called that those names. Anyway, a conspiracy of ravens, which lived nearby, became friends with Raven Feathers and she with them. She was proud that she got them to do more good than bad since friends usually do kindnesses for each other.

 “No villagers challenged Raven Feathers’ skills. Her medicinal and spirit world knowledge was far beyond any of the other men or women. She had dozens of potions, magic items, seeds, powders, and she used them wisely, usually with satisfactory results, sometimes amazing results. She was a major influence on the women leaders of the tribe to make wise and careful decisions with the whole village in mind, not just one individual, or individual group. Sacrifices often needed to be made, usually by the women, who were truly the caretakers and custodians of an organized and peaceful community that worked as a team for the betterment of all. That ideal didn’t always work, then she became a mediator, a person who tried to solve conflicts.

 “The women were the quiet, thoughtful, and subtle decision-makers, seldom getting the attention they deserved. Mostly, when they had a meeting, they were hushed. They had a dignity, a community consciousness. Day to day life was their domain. When a woman, at a meeting, got mad she would curse or throw small clumps of dirt at her opponent’s feet to show disagreement. Not so with the men. The men’s meetings were often about power, strength, hunting and war strategy, and boisterous bragging, including much anger which usually included fighting, and arguing, unless Bloody Hands was present. He was the official leader or the warriors, while the village chief commanded all other men in the village. He did not have command over the women, rather, they had command over him. Bloody Hands occasionally acted as if he was the chief. The women usually reminded him that he was not and not to interfere in village life, though they knew he had some influence with the chief of the village. Bloody Hands was mostly disliked by most of the women, especially by Raven Feathers who liked to use circling raven, high in the sky over her head like a black hallo. It made Bloody Hands behave himself when he tried to increase his command over more than just the warriors. He seldom challenged her and stayed in the background, letting the more boisterous and impatient warriors wonder about his power and command. He enjoyed his power to give permission or deny permission to his warriors and the apprentices.

          “I had been lost in thought when Raven Feathers threw a pale-green, wild onion at me. I could see it and smell it as an onion easily, the green stem and the while bulb at the underground end, Then she threw another similar shaped plant, but it had a tiny black spot on the tip of each shoot, like insect poop.  Hardly noticeable. From the surface the two plant’s shoots looked alike, except for the tiny black spots. But the second plant was not a wild onion though it smell like one. The second object was the ‘death onion.’ However, the bulbous, beneath the earth part of it was white with those tiny spots on it, as if it were beginning to rot, or an insect had bitten it.  It only had a mild onion smell, even when your nose was close to it. Both plants looked remarkably alike. She pointed to the first one and said, “Good, eat.” She pointed to the look-alike onion and said, “Death. Kill or sick.”

“She stared at me, an ominous glow in eyes. I had never seen her look at me like that, only at to some of the villagers whom she suspected of wanting to harm her, or just quietly hated her, like Bloody Hands and his son.

 She demonstrated calm strength, was a more than competent healer and spiritual leader with many secrets. Some secrets must be dark secrets that I did not inquire about. I was learning to understand her by her actions, more than her speech. I saw that she had little influence over the major decision of the chief. She had no interest in usurping his power and decision making. It wasn’t a power she should have. She influence the women’s’ committees but did not control them. She knew that these kinds of political powers gave birth to tyrants.

She was old and must not have many years left for her skills to help the villagers, yet no child or adult was offered for her to pass on her knowledge. The villagers were superstitious and did not want their child with her.

I asked her if she ever used the ‘death plant.’

She answered, “Use little, sometimes use bad mushrooms. No kill. Only use to influence tragedy from bad spirits. Once make Bloody Hands little sick when raven tell me he want to be chief an’ planned to kill chief. Make him pain in stomach and head.”

“You kill?”

“Little bit when rape or murder. Use onion full strength.”

I could tell she no longer wanted to talk about the rightness or wrongness of those decisions.

“Bad me, sometime.”

I realized, then, that she must always struggle to use her powers to help, not hurt, but that wasn’t always possible.

 She reached into another small pouch, and saw my inquiring eyes concerning the ingredient, then said ‘snakeroot.’ She mixed it with the sage and added them to a clay cup of warm water to make what looked like tea but was not for drinking.

Next, she sprinkled crushed and dried flakes of tobacco over the fire, the sprinkled the tea mixture over the fire. This created plumes dense smoke that filled the longhouse area of that person. It was like a dense fog that burned the eyes only slightly. I knew that tobacco is also a sacred herb, like sage. Both had healing powers. By mid-morning, the sick person was feeling much better. By doing this, she gained more respect, especially since the Iroquois tribes were matriarchal and the women had much power over the Chiefs who had influence over many aspects of village life and villager’s actions.

“One day I felt a headache coming so I mentioned it to her. She made a tea by crushing dry bark with a wooden mortar and pestle. I asked about the powder being made. She told me that it was dried bark from a Weeping Willow Tree. (note: Willow tree leaves and bark contain the same chemicals as aspirin). I sipped the tea until it was gone and shortly after that, so was my headache. She said the willow tree has strong healing powers and relieves pain, especially for headaches and other kinds minor, everyday pain. She got up and walked to a corner of her section of the longhouse where an animal hide blanket covered a portion of her medicines. She lifted the blanket to expose the tools of her work and power. She had more dried herbs, berries, leaves, bark, clam shells, sweetgrass braids and so much more that I could not count them all. She remarked, “Many seasons to learn. Still learn.”

                                      *******

I saw a hand raised and waving in the air. I paused for a question.

Lily: “Wasn’t she being sneaky, and sometimes lying to her people?”

Me: It looks like that to us, but the Indians have different values and standard of behavior. To them or even one of them, Raven Feathers was doing her job, to heal and influence for the good of the villagers. But they had to believe for her power and influence for it work on them. Like religion.

There was a bang on the cabin door. A loud one. Not a hand. A foot. I understood and pointed to Slone.

Slone: “The villagers feared her. How do you help people that fear you?”

Me: “How does God help people who fear him? Like I said, it’s difficult to understand a people who are so different from you, have different religions, different practices, different traditions, customs, and a radically different culture. They would look at white people and have the same questions about our odd ways of living, our different clothes, beliefs, behaviors, health matters, chopping the trees down to make cabins, barns, fences. Stuff like that. All things that we think are useful and necessary, but they are so different from us and us from them that it causes suspicion, mistrust, fear. hostility.”

Lily: “Isn’t our way of life better? They are so primitive without our knowledge and modern inventions.”

Me: “They don’t care about our modern life. They see us as destroyers of their land and lives. Do you think you have the power and the right to tell other people how to live their lives? What to believe and not to believe, especially if they are satisfied with the ways of living and beliefs they’ve had for centuries? Their way is not our way, just like the way British soldiers fight in lines and rows is the way they would fight an enemy. In our forested environment, the Indians are superior fighters. They hide, then attack, then repeat the process. They use the environment for protection while British soldiers stand out in the open. Which way is better when in America?

          Lily and Slone thought about that question but remained silent.”

                                       CHAPTER 12

The following month, April, involved frequent tension. Swift Arrow’s close friends each wanted to cut off a piece of me. Eagle Eye pushed me one day, but I walked away. Then he came at me from behind and kicked me in the lower back. Since a confrontation looked unavoidable, why avoid it? I thought. I turned as he tried to kick me again. I grabbed his outstretched leg, lifted it as high as my chest, then kicked him in the groin. I let go of him and as his bent body leaned toward me, I punched him in the nose. I remember my dad saying, “The quickest way to end a fight was to strike the nose first. Make it bleed and the eyes will water, hampering their vision. Bloody noses can end fights before they even start. The sight of his own blood made Eagle Eye turn and walk away, holding hands to his bloody nose. Before he walked away, I saw the rage in his eyes, the gritting of his teeth. I knew I never could turn my back on him, but that would be nearly impossible. I couldn’t watch his every move about the village any more that I could do it with Swift Arrow.

One day there was a race for all of us teenage boys. Swift Arrow was there, along with his friends: Little Bear, Slim Boy, Wise Rabbit, Star Watcher, Strong Wind, Beaver Runs. There were others in the race who were not part of Swift Arrow’s group, and they stayed away from me. When the race started, Swift Arrow’s friends each took turns pushing and bumping into me or tripping me so Swift Arrow would win. They didn’t know that I would have let him beat me anyway. I had decided to stay in the middle of the pack of runners. I was still tripped twice, was kicked, and elbowed, as well as punched. All this was done with other runners blocking a view of me so the cheating was not seen by the villagers, however, a raven was flying high above us, so I was certain that Raven Feathers knew what was happening but could do nothing about it, yet. We all went fast around the first oval path, but we still had to run the path two more times. Not getting stress, frustrated was sapping my energy, do during the second time around the path I attacked my attackers in the same way they had been attacking me. I did as they did, trying to conceal my movements and resulting actions. I didn’t intend to win, just irritate, and frustrate them. I used my elbows, hands, feet, and sarcasm to accomplish my childish need for vengeance. Still, it felt good to do it.

                                      *******

As the months passed, I grew tired of eating succotash, the ‘three sisters’ (Joh-heh-goh) meal made from mixing dried, pulverized corn kernels, green beans, and squash. I did like corn but preferred the thick corn soup (Oh-go-sah-gee) with wild carrots and wild onions. The corn soup was much better, consisting of succotash, plus meat (when available) herbs, carrots, roots, and fish, for enriched nourishment. I wondered what the early settlers would have used for their major food if the Iroquois hadn’t taught them to grow corn in the New World.

Winter was a time when meat was scarce. Some animals hibernated, or changed territory, fish were protected by the ice layer over the rivers and lakes. Deer didn’t travel unless hunted, or for lack of vegetation to eat. Frequent hunting pushed deer out of an area, so hunters were forced to follow them longer and longer distances. An Iroquois hunter might be gone all day and come back empty handed, except for squirrels and rabbits. Sometimes it took two or three days to shoot a deer, gut it, then cut off the prime pieces of meat. It was all bound in the skinned deer hide and carried to a quickly constructed sleigh where the meat was placed, then pulled back to the village, which could be miles away. The stronger men did not build a sleigh. They carried the meat as if the deer-skin hide were a back bag. So, you see, dear kids, that winter was a time for little meat to eat. To satisfy their hunger for meat, many villagers killed their dogs. The village, in summer, was nearly overrun with dogs, but when winter came, they were used as a last resort for meat.

                                       *******

In the middle of April, a long-hunter, who ranged over long distances, named River Runner came back with a large buck across his shoulders. He staggered under the heaviness of the deer, reached the center of the village, and dropped it off his shoulders. He put himself through unnecessary effort for the bragging rights in storytelling and because the villagers, especially the ‘old ones,’ would adore him and call him a savior. The joy in the villagers rang out with singing, chants, dancing, and whooping. Mouths were watering.

It had been ‘field dressed’ (gutted) and only the heart, kidneys, and liver remained, separately wrapped, and tossed into the deer’s body cavity. As I looked at the liver, something bothered me. I looked at the deer’s mouth, its lolling tongue protruding, the corners of its mouth were bubbly white. Saliva or froth? I turned to Raven Feathers and told her what a relative had once told my dad and me one Thanksgiving day.

Raven Feathers listened carefully to my story, then asked the hunter where he got the deer and how he killed it. She asked why there were no arrows in it. River Runner said he traded with mountain hunters for it, giving up his fine tomahawk for it. Raven Feathers said she wanted to perform a test on the deer meat. I had told her to select the liver. Water was set on the central village fire.

As we waited for it to boil, Raven Feathers and I hurried to our living quarters and got a small bowl as well as a piece of her silver jewelry on a chain.

Boiling water was poured into the bowl with a chunk of liver placed into the water. When the water turned a light brown and bits and pieces of the liver started mixing with the water, I asked Raven Feathers to drop her piece of silver into the boiling water. People were getting impatient, thinking only of their stomachs. I looked inside the bowl and nodded my head to Raven Feathers who reached into the water with a twig, caught the chain and pulled the jewelry out of the water. The silver had turned black. The meat was poisoned with arsenic which almost every white farmer used to kill rats and other vermin that ate their stored grain. “It’s white man’s poison,” Raven Feathers announced. “No eat!” she warned. She was not believed so she asked for someone’s dog to test the meat. The dog devoured the liver as if it were starving. Nothing immediately happened to the dog and after an hour, villagers were laughing at Raven Feathers and me. I told her it was slow acting poison. They had to wait longer. A few hours later the dog got weak, started whining, then whimpering. It fell to the ground, its legs kicking, low moaning growls came from its frothing mouth. An hour later the dog was dead.

Raven Feathers said, “White hunters poison deer. Eat meat, you die like dog.” Then Raven Feathers recommended that the chief send two warriors to hunt down and kill the white hunters. The chief commanded Bloody Hands to take charge. Three days later the warriors returned with two long-haired and scruffy scalps.

“I will remember trick,” Raven Feathers said with a smile.

“Only works if the poison is white man’s arsenic,” I told her, “but it’s the chosen poison because it’s easily available in large amounts for white farmers.”

                                      *******

          In late April, a rattlesnake was seen and heard at the edge of the village. Adult warriors, Bloody Hands, and Gray Cloud ran out to see it. Bloody Hands screamed for the curious followers to return to the village. Raven Feathers ignored him as I returned to the village. On my way, I turned and looked at Raven Feathers who was intensely observing all there was at the snake bite sight. A dead fox lay on the ground, having also been bitten by the rattlesnake. The snake coiled its body and continued to rattle, then raised its head out of the coil in a striking position.

 Snake Spirit, with naïve confidence, thinking he had influence over the snake because of his name, and wanting to be the center of attention, got too close and was bitten in the calf. He froze in that position, then fell to the ground in a screaming panic. Bloody Hands quickly grabbed the boy’s arm and jerked him away from being bitten again. He picked up the boy and quickly carried him as he followed Raven Feathers to her living space. We both attended the boy. Raven Feathers was busy with potions and magic items. She threw tobacco into the fire and sliced open the wound to let it bleed out some of the poison. She poured a buck’s urine on the wound, as she had done to many of my cuts, scratches, abrasions, and bruises. She said it prevented an evil spirit from entering through the wound.

She mixed dry sage leaves, certain dry mushroom caps, dried snakeroot, and dried willow bark. As she worked, she instructed me as well. I learned that 'snakeroot' can be used internally and externally, so that’s what she ordered me to do. I ground those ingredients in her mortar and pestle until they were a finely powdered and my arms ached. Then she made warm tea for the boy with those same ingredients, with proportions unknown to me. She gave the tea to me and asked that I make Snake Spirit swallow it until it was gone. When it was gone and I stopped, Raven Feathers barked, “More! Wet pouch (poultice) in tea,” so loudly that it startled both Snake Spirit and myself. I made more tea, made him drink more, wet the poultice with the remaining tea, then applied it to the bite marks. I watch the overloaded poultice travel in rivulets down the boys leg hoping for reliable results.

The boy’s eyes became dazed, sleepy, He started sweating profusely and shivering. Goose flesh flooded his flesh, then he began trembling, so I knew he felt cold even in this warm environment. His mother and father came to visit him in Raven Feathers’s isolated part of the Long House. They were worried, but even though they did not like Raven Arrow, they respected her skills. The boy was slipping into unconscious. When the parents left, Raven Feathers placed a blanket over the boy. She said, “Tea potion for pain. Mushroom make sleep. I brought it to her, and she order me to make a different tea with the remaining hot water. She measured the amount and dumped it into the water. Its dried pulp bubbled in the hot water leaving tiny bubbles and a light film on the surface. Snake Spirit had to drink a cup of that, also.

I was concerned about the ‘death onion.’ I asked her, “No death onion?” She saw the concern on my face and placed her hand on my shoulder. “No death onion,” she said. All healers, spirit leaders need people to believe spirits not seen. Gives them the power to influence others even when not true.”

When that was done, Snake Spirit was fully unconscious. Raven Feathers whispered that, in the past, the ‘death onion’ in the precise amount tended to lessen the strength of the snake poison.

“I make better,” she whispered, then asked me to assist her. I didn’t help much, just went back and forth getting ingredients for her new potions. From her vast supplies I gathered thistle milk powder, wormwood powder, beebalm powder, Indian Cress flakes and, lastly, horse urine. While I gathered these supplies I uncovered a strange object, an intestine tube with something tied to the end. I’d ask her about it later. She kept this liquid separate. in a small clay container. When I poured it out, I immediately knew what it was that I had been smelling when I first moved into Raven Feathers’s home. She pointed at a clay bowl and told me to spill all the ingredients into it, plus one wooden dipper full of the boiled water. I did this and the smell that wafted up into my nose was worse that a decaying skunk’s body. I clapped my hand over my nostrils and squeezed them shut. My feet knew what to do as they carried me outside where I promptly vomited.

When I reentered the room, I asked, “What is this used for?”

“He must drink,” was her gross answer. Even her nose twitched at the foul smell, and she must have been prepared for it.

She took over for me and made Snake Spirit swallow all of it, pouring it very slowly between his lips and letting his swallowing reflex take over as the sedative worked on him. I watched and kept swallowing as if I could taste it.

“This potion sometimes relieves snakebite pain, but usually on man, not boy. Boy small. Poison get in blood faster, spread faster. More pain.

During the day we heard the dancing and shouting from some villagers, including the boy’s mother and father. They were waking the good spirits, yelling for the good spirits to attend to their son. The chants lasted most of the day.

Late at night, we both attended to Snake Spirit. Then we sat by the fire to keep watch over him. Raven Feathers said, “You listen,” then went on to tell me the boy would not die.

“Boy see talking snake. Dead fox near snake. Snake bite poison fox, so snake now low on poison. White man call it ‘dry bite.’ Bites be shallow, too. Leg swell little bit, bite marks bleed. Fever come. When gone boy lives.”

          Such a remarkable woman she was to me and her people, though, at times, she was moody, irritable, and produced a stare that looked severely intimidating. I never found out how old she was. I don’t think she even knew her age. I’d would guess she was about seventy, quite old for an Indian. Sadly, I thought about her adulthood. She may have had many friends in her youth, but the last forty years must have been lonely, especially with a dead son. I asked about the father once and I’ll never do it again. When I asked, months ago, she picked up a knife, pointed it at me and shouted, “No ask!” Later, she said she was sorry, but I saw the look in her eyes and the grinding sound of her worn-down teeth as if she were chewing on my flesh. Her rabid fierceness was obvious. I never mentioned it again but whatever she felt toward the boy’s father must be related to the boy’s death and had to have hurt tremendously and had surpassed any hurt she had ever experienced.

          That night, when the whole village was quiet and our patient was sleeping, calmly and still, I asked Raven feathers about the object I saw. She acted as if she had to remember back a few years. “Oh. Momma, hurt much here.” She raised her right hand to her tunic and squeezed her left breast. I tried not to blush. It took a while before I could understand, but when I was told that the mother of a baby could not feed it from her painfully sore nipples, I saw where the explanation was going. I’d never seen it done before, never even heard of it, yet it was so simple and the product of the fertile mind of a problem solver.

 Raven Feathers explained that the mother could not breast feed, but she could, less painfully, squeeze her breast milk into a fire-hardened clay bowl. The milk was then poured into a portion of a cleaned bear intestine with the hollow end of a large raven feather attached to the end of the bear gut. The baby was fed this way. It work well, thought it was inconvenient and difficulty at times to stop leakage. It was an alternate way of feeding a baby. The baby would have starved to death without it. I marveled at her ingenuity and wondered how many other Iroquois had invented progressive ideas or made objects that the settlers did not know about. This type of thinking is not done by savages, as the Indians were often called. I went to sleep thinking that I’d rather have her for a doctor than the white doctors that I had become used to in the colonies.

Raven Feathers surprised me again when she added, “Mother want no more babies, but want to please her man.” I didn’t know what to expect. She was so free with her talk about anything, while showing no signs of hesitance or embarrassment. I learned that one of her containers contained powdered ‘stone seed’ from a plant in the same family as corn. The woman would not become pregnant if she made a tea of it before she pleased her man, then a second tea later. I marveled at her vast knowledge of medicinal plants, most of which were unknow to white people. I wondered; How many people will laugh at me when I tell them about this?

In the morning Snake Spirit was in pain, his calf was discolored but Raven Feathers said he was healing. She gave him more of the tea and by evening the boy was much better. Raven Feathers had come to the rescue once again. Her mystical powers, in the eyes of the villagers, increased. Her reputation soared. No mention was ever made about the ‘dry bite.’

We noticed that there was a celebration going on. I inquired about it with Gray Wolf. He said Swift Arrow had thrown his tomahawk at the snake, beheaded it and now he was roasting it to eat and gain the power that was within it. I walked to him and congratulated him on such an accurate throw. He sneered at me and said to his friends, “We see Black Kettle weak. You run so we kill snake.”

“He helped save my boy’s life,” said Kill Deer, Snake Spirit’s father. “You think too much of yourself,” he said to Swift Arrow as I walked away.

The remainder of the month was quiet, boring, and used mostly to gather supplies for my escape and for Raven Feathers to sew me another pair of double-soled moccasins.

I learned more about the healing power of herbs, also. The two raven feathers in my hair became permanent. Now Raven Feathers and I both walked around with raven feathers fluttering in the breeze. It served as a warning to those who intended evil doings to me. Since two of the mile racers came down sick with fevers that Raven Feathers healed, the Swift Arrow followers kept their distance from me.