BLACK KETTLE, RUNNING Part 3

By Bill Sheehan 11/17/2024 CHAPTER 13

May finally arrived, but I still had a couple of weeks to wait. It was so frustrating that sometimes I couldn’t eat due to my stomach being twisted in a knot. I couldn’t practice running greater distances than the mile at which we had raced. I took long walks, paced around the village, and paced back and forth outside the longhouse. When alone in the forest, I exercised: push-ups, squats, sit-ups and sometimes pull-ups with a low tree branch. When in sight of the village I talked to myself and used hand and arm gestures as if I were in a fight. The villagers thought I was going crazy; I was entertainment for those who hated me. Finally, worried that I would give a clue to my attempted escape, Raven Feathers had me drink a potion made from a particular kind of dried mushroom. It acted like a mild sedative, made me mildly dizzy but I experienced pleasant feelings and dreams.

 At bedtime Raven Feathers told me that it was time to escape, go home, but not until the early morning hours when the tribe was asleep, and the dogs remained in or near the longhouses. Raven Feathers tossed me the deer hide clothes that she had sewed together during some long winter hours.

She whispered, “Take ‘hawk.’ Take knife. Put on hip with braided leather rope so you grab fast. No bow. No Arrows. Make Black Kettle slow when run. Get caught in branches, bushes. Make fall.”

She placed a trader’s cloth bag near me.

I looked at it, said, “What’s in the bag?”

“White man’s cloth is strong. Make from thick string. Call ‘can-fass. She meant ‘canvas.’ “It easy carry. Food in it: pemmican rounds.” She meant the nutrient rich food used on long hunts and war parties going a long distance from the tribe or when stopping to forage for food or hunt meat would be inconvenient. The pemmican rounds consisted of mostly solidified deer or bear fat mixed with plenty of dried slivers of meat plus many crushed nuts, berries, and plant material for added taste. The mixture is pressed into a small ball shape about half as round as Raven Feathers’s small fist.

I rummaged through the bag, then said, “What’s this ugly thing?”

“Deer stomach. Water bag. You fill when near water.”

“Is that enough food?” I asked

She sneered at me playfully. “No,” she said with a smile, then made the hand-sign that meant ‘fool.’

She stared at me; shook her head. “Pick berries, nuts, plants to eat. Eat fruit still on trees since fall. Eat worms, grubs, baby fish, frogs. You remember I teach you, she pointed at my head. You learn food come from Mother of Forest. Then the smile, again, and but the new hand-sign meant ‘stupid.’”

I pulled some other material out of the canvas shoulder bag and asked, “This?”

“White man’s cloth. We trade for it. White man’s metal cup, too.”

“I can take a fire hardened clay cup so you can keep this tin cup.”

I didn’t need to ask about the materials for making a friction fire with a ‘bow drill.’ I had become an expert at that. I wasn’t allowed to use the white-man’s flint and steel to make a fire until I had mastered fire-making with the ‘bow-drill.’

“Clay break. Not tin cup,” she said as she pointed to more cloth nestled in her bed area.”

“Why did you give me these two other pieces of soft cloth in the bag? White man’s cloth?”

She laughed at me and ran her hand up the crack of her buttocks. “You wipe. Wash cloth. Dry. Use more.”

“Why two pieces?

 Use other piece when water nowhere. Use morning dew. Drag cloth on plants, grass. Soak up dew. Squeeze water in mouth.” She started laughing quietly, held her stomach due to the pain of laughter. She said, “No get mixed up.” She continued to laugh while I could only grimace. Gross, I thought. There was no need to do anything like that in the village where a clear creek was only fifty steps away. I didn’t ask any more questions. My face was red, but not due to the heat of the fire.

I remembered talking to white captives and learned from their mistakes in the wilderness. I learned about wilderness food from Raven Feathers and from listening to warriors talking about their survival in the forest for lengthy periods of time.

Soon after I was captured and went to live with Raven Feathers, she cut off most of my hair. I was not allowed to have the Mohawk style hair of the warriors. Only a ‘top knot’ remained. In this top knot she attached two new raven feathers. When that was done, she talked about edible wilderness foods.

“You eat chickweed seeds, wild grapes, insects, bird eggs, rose hips. You find fresh dead animal, so you get meat. No eat raw. Cook lots so no blood in meat.” I didn’t ask her why. I’d already been acting stupid.

“No find animal meat? Get fish more easy. Clean inside. Cut off head, tail, skin. Eat raw or over fire.”

“Geez, Da. Was that all you had with you?” Lily asked.

Before I had a chance to answer her, Slone blurted, “Da. How far did you have to travel?”

“Lily, yes, that’s all I had. It was so that I could travel fast and light. I never knew exactly how far I’d have to travel. I needed to find the right rivers and follow them eastward if they ran that way or came from that way. Coming to the village took about two weeks. It’s difficult to keep track of time when you’re hungry, sore, fearful, and exhausted.”

“Well, then, take a guess.” Slone persisted.

“I’d guess it was about three to four hundred miles.” I remember feeling sad and already discouraged when I thought of that distance.

Slone looked excited, then blurted, “The rag, Da. How much did you use that butt rag?”

“He means the doo-doo rag. Not the dew-dew one,” Lily added.

The laughter was expected. I let it continue for awhile

          “OK. No more rag questions.” I was grossed out, too.

          “Maybe we should talk to Nana and mom about having a doo-doo rag.” Slone and Lily obsessed about the humor that that subject would call forth.

          “I scowled at them and added, “I would not advise it. It would be too gross for them and may involve a punishment for the both of you.”

I paused, then continued the story as they giggled.

                                      *******

 I couldn’t sleep that night. Neither could Raven Feathers, so she cooked what little meat she had. It tasted delicious because meat used to be scarce in wintertime. Now it’s springtime and large animals can be hunted easily, and all the villagers share the meat the hunters bring back. We ate together with little talking. When we finished, she told me about her life, but only superficial details. She did not get into core memories, details of important or tragic events. She changed the subject by asking about my young life. I talked about my young life for an hour, then she bluntly stated, “You go now.”

“I hugged her, and she stiffened (It was not an Indian custom). I held her hands and kissed them (Not their custom either, but she accepted it as my gift to her, the way white men do such things.) As I still held her small hands, her eyes moistened and mine soon matched her’s. I said, “Nyah-weh,” thank you. She gently pushed me to the exit and said, “On-en-ki-wahl,” good bye, then added, “Deh-jee-nya-tah-cha-se-hay,” Our paths shall cross again. The last I saw of her was when I was a few feet away. I turned, looked, and waved at her. She was clutching the False Face medallion, which hung from her neck. She had told me that she would tell my pursuers that terrible things would happen to them while chasing me. She made a hand-signs for ‘run swift and far.’ I ran into the night; the only light coming from the stars and a quarter moon, which gave me a vertical smile. I hoped that would be a good-luck omen, even though it’s a full moon that the Indians considered to be a good-luck omen.

                                       CHAPTER 14

“After I had tripped and fallen, I realized that to get hurt badly, would prevent my swift travel, being caught quickly, and brought back to the village for my death sentence. It would be risking Raven Feathers’ reputation and make her an outcast, not physically, but in the minds of most villagers. I needed to slow down enough to be watchful, alert, and wise. I thought that slowing down until morning, when I could see better, would be the best thing to do. I travelled for hours and when I got tired and sleepy, I cursed myself for wanting to stop at such a dangerous time. I staggered, thought about not accidentally injuring myself, then stopped to catch my breath. I sat with my back against a tree, the rough bark biting into my back. I was exhausted which enabled me to ignore the pain as I slept for a couple of hours.

“I startled myself awake, in a confused panic, jumped up, looked around for danger, then began running and eating pemmican at the same time. I came to the top of a hill and spotted a particularly tall Black Walnut tree. Putting the pemmican away, I climbed it as far up as I could and peered westward. My heart was a taut drum being beaten. I wondered how much distance I had lost by sleeping. Through the thin, shorter treetops I saw movement in a clearing. A herd of deer bunched together were moving quickly. My chasers must have scared them with the noises that fast travel creates, or they may be rushing away from hunters or bear. I was only guessing that the . . . “Oh no! Not a herd of deer. Deer don’t have two legs. It was Swift Arrow and his gang of pursuers. The unexpected sight scared me into a full body sweat. I was so scared that even my nose was dripping. About ready to climb down and make a greater distance from them, I saw a flash of color that helped me count six or eight pursuers. Bloody Hands must have let Swift Arrow be the leader, desperately wanting him to prove himself as a leader. Swift Arrow only wanted to be the first to plunge his knife into me. If Swift Arrow was the leader, then there were no adult warriors. That meant that my pursuers were the young teenage, ‘apprentice warriors,’ so that meant my pursuers were Swift Arrow’s close friends. This was a test for them. Being scared gave me the energy to run faster. The sweat dripped off my forehead and into my eyes stinging them and blurring my vision. I had to wipe my forehead frequently to stop the dripping, but the sweat still flowed off my chin as if my mouth were a small creek.

“After three hours of running, I was so exhausted that I made a runners worse mistake. I looked back over my shoulder, my feet collided, and I fell banging my knee on a ground level tree root. I got up and hobbled along. The travelling now was more difficult as I had to go over patches of snow, muddy ground, bushes, and trees everywhere. I told myself, don’t step in the snow or mud patches and leave tracks. Commands like that rang in my head constantly. I also needed to be alert every second for a low hanging branch as I fought my way through thickets, some thorned which assisted with alertness. They would all be obstacles to my followers, too, especially the one who brought their bow and arrows. Raven Feathers was right telling me to leave them behind. An image of hands using sign language flashed in mind. Raven Feathers was giving he signs for ‘fool’ and ‘stupid,’ but the image I had of her was smiling. I was so concerned about not injuring myself that I got careless and injured myself.

“The soreness increased in my knee, and I could feel the swelling under my soft leather pants. Now looking at the pants, I saw the color change, in spots, to a deep brown where the sweat soaked through them. The leather rubbing against the swelling started to bother me. I tied a leather cord below my knee, then filled the knee area of my pants with snow and ice chips to ease the swelling and pain.

“I limped to the river. I was lucky to find fish in the shallow water and easily stoned a larger one. I cut off the head and tail, gutted and skinned it, then ate raw as I walked eastward. The pain had to be blocked out, at least partially. The taste of the raw fish seemed pleasing and distracted me, knowing it supplied energy. After eating, I turned, cupped my open palms behind my ears and listened intensely. I could not hear anything that sounded as if it came from my pursuers. My presence scared the animals and birds into silence so any human noise of a group close-by would be heard.

                                      *******

“My main attention was always focused on hearing, but I was also looking for areas with rocks or stumps or even fallen trees that I could walk on to hide my tracks. I also looked for thick layers of pine needles and leaves that wouldn’t quickly and automatically get spotted. If it slowed them down, that was satisfactory. Once I grabbed a low tree limb, climbed up on it, went to the opposite side of the tree, away from the path I had been on, then climbed out as far as I could and dropped down going in different direction. Later, I decided that it took too long to perform, too easy to spot and wasn’t worth it. I wanted rain to wash out my tracks, to make being in the forest uncomfortable for my pursuers.

Hiding my tracks while being in a hurry was difficult, especially while my feet and legs ached. I stopped doing it. Moving fast was more important. The moccasins didn’t protect me from rough or sharp ground objects and bruises were accumulating. My calf and thigh muscles not only ached, but cramped, especially in the calf region. Muscle spasms became more frequent. This long distance travel was much more difficult than following an Iroquois band of raiders for a few hundred miles, even with our infrequent rest stops. I was foolish to think that my experiences had placed me in such good physical condition that I could do this fast traveling for such a distance. But I had no better choice, so I directed my feet eastward and tried not to think negatively.

“Finding water was necessary so I could refill the deer stomach-bag, plus I could walk up or down stream and have my tracks get lost temporarily. They would find where I entered easy enough, but it was much harder to find where I made my exit, or which direction I went, with the current or against the current. I walked mostly downstream, as expected, so I could fool them for a longer time later during my trip. The problem was that the rivers and streams did not travel east so I was going out of my way to slow Swift Arrow’s group. I gained time and distanced myself each time I did it, but was it worth it to go in the wrong direction? If the stream was shallow, I simply stopped in the middle, then went in the direction that went somewhat eastward; may be it was northeast or southeast if the direction took me eastward. But, here, again, the stones and rocks in the shallow creek punished my feet which were only covered with a pliable double layered sole of tough deer hide and tougher than usual stitching, another one of Raven Feathers’ gifts for my departure.

          “As I walked farther, I heard the rippling of a stream. I went toward the sound. I drank until my head hurt from the cold, then filled my water bag. I walked as I ate pemmican, nuts, dried berries. When done eating I ran, but slowly and carefully by and around the forests tall sentinels. There were no straight lines in the forest, except for things that fly. The travel was either to the left of trees, bushes, and other obstacles, or to the right of them. It was like being in a maze. I was being forced to go in a certain direction depending on the obstacles that I had to walk around. I became angry at nature for getting in my way, until I thought about how silly I was being.

“I stopped to avoid a trip or stagger, then I looked back as I ate and saw some of my clear, and careless, tracks but unable stop my forward motion. I had no time to cover my mistakes. No time for that. I had to keep going. Off to the side I saw a patch of Black Trumpet mushrooms. I quickly picked a handful and put them in my shoulder bag. They could be eaten raw or boiled with herbs for a tastier meal. I’d have to eat them raw as I did the fish. I quickly gathered wildlife food like that whenever I saw it near me. I did not go off searching for it.

“I thought food would be a problem, but it was turning out to be only a minor inconvenience if I had to stop and pick various kinds of berries. Bay berries and elderberries were a favorite as well as milkweed tubers, wild lettuce, wild carrots, and garlic. There was also cherries, checker berries, acorns, dandelions, flowers and so much more that Raven Feathers taught me. Now I know why she packed so little food for me.

“At dusk I had to stop. I fell to my knees, placed my hands on the ground, now looking like a dog on all four legs, then collapsed onto my chest. I don’t know for how long, but it was full darkness when I awoke.

          The light from the moon squeezed through the forest’s heavy canopy of towering trees, giving a sense of gloom which was quite different from the moon light that I’d casually and pleasantly observed at night in the village. That moon seemed to cast a silvery sparkle on the grasses, shrubs, and leaves. But this moon had threating shadows, where low tree limbs became arms reaching for me and thick undergrowth whose fingers kept trying to trip me, to impede my progress as if the forest came alive and chose to aid my pursuers. The night sounds were amplified by the fear I felt. Owl hoots were more startling, unusually loud it seemed, but I knew that somehow the nighttime carried sounds farther. Then I was startled by an owl’s silent flight as it passed overhead. An arrow is what I thought the sound could be, but it wasn’t. Nocturnal insects and bugs made their staccato noises while night creatures roamed the land seeking food by scurrying from bush to bush, tree to tree, limb to limb making sounds I could barely hear, and because of that, my imagination went wild until I told myself to “grow up, act my age, be mature.” I tried it but it only lessened my fear a little.

“In the moonlight I found edible catchweed plants, picked a handful of the leaves, and ate them raw as a snack. They tasted like weak coffee. I also came upon a patch of Indian Cress, ate a few of its leaves and threw the rest away. I didn’t like their peppery taste. I feared it would make me sneeze and upset my stomach. Sneezing and vomiting made noise. Noise was to be avoided.

“Smells of the pine scented forest mingled with the scent of wintergreen leaves and ground decay: pine needles, an assortment of windblown leaves, and twigs. My anxiety and fear were causing a tightening feeling in my chest, my lungs on fire from a day of constant exhaustion. Panic was like snakes biting at my heels, but that did keep me going when I thought I couldn’t go farther. I could if staggering were acceptable and, for me, it was. Onward. Mostly eastward. Walk, run, trot, stagger, whichever direction will take me eastward or nearly eastward.

“Hours later, I came to a creek. This was the creek that Raven Feathers called ‘Swift Waters’ which, in the Iroquois language, was pronounce To-na-wan-da. 

“While standing in the creek, the reflected moonlight danced in the shallow but swift water as if there was an underwater flame. Was it a flame from Hell punching its way through a porthole, then finding there was a ceiling of water? Can’t be that? I thought, or was I being silly and giddy. Wouldn’t the water be boiling? My thoughts strayed as I thought of nonsense ideas due to my physical and mental exhaustion. I found it difficult to focus, to concentrate, to be optimistic.

Lily’s hand shot upward.

“Lily?” I stated.

“What does the word ‘opto-mist-ic’ mean?

“Heck. Even I know that.” Slone said sarcastically.

“Oh, yea,” smart mule. What’s it mean?” Lily retorted.

“A mystery or some kind.”

“May I interrupt the both of you, please? You two argue too much. ‘Optimistic’ simply means to be ‘hopeful’ or ‘confident’ about a future event, or events. From now on when one of you asks a question, I’ll answer it without the other person saying anything mean to the person asking the question. And there will be not questions about that rule. Be quiet and listen."

“I refilled my water bag, then got out of the water and walked a few steps into the centuries old forest. I used my tomahawk to sharpen a nearly straight branch. Maybe Mother Nature overheard what I stated about ‘straight lines.’ I used it to dig two close holes in the ground, each about a foot deep. Then I scooped out a tunnel between them for air circulation. My dad said that a mountain man, beaver trapper had taught him that trick. It was worth the extra work because the fire would then burn extra hot and fast, with little smoke and with the flame blocked by the sides of the hole, the flames would not be seen easily. I built the fires with my metal knife (the one my captors took from me) and a piece of flint that Raven Feathers had put into my bag. I boiled water in the tin cup, then added leftover mushrooms and catchweed, with small bits of a wild apples and cherries.

“Before I extinguished the fire, I prepared a long pole that I had found earlier. I sharpened both ends, then fire hardened each pointed end by placing it into the fire until the inner moisture stopped sizzling. This made the ends much harder, sturdier. Then I quickly extinguished the fire. Before I covered the holes with dirt, I used one hole to poop and pee. Then I covered the holes with the dirt I had dug out of them, stamped on that dirt to level it, and covered the holes with leaves, pine needles and small, dead branches to hold the leaves down. Doing that stopped the smell of me and the distinctive smell of fire ashes. Then I sat down to rest. I hadn’t noticed my knee pain in a few hours. I hoped that the cold helped to minimize the swelling and to start the healing process. Each time I had come to water, I’d put my knee in it for a few minutes. I noticed the swelling had decreased. As a child, I had always healed quicker that most kids. Mom called it ‘spooky’ but good.”

                                      *******

“How did the mushrooms, apples, and cherries taste after they were boiled?” asked Slone.

“Well. Not bad, but I knew they were nourishing and good for me. I also knew that I needed more meat, so I roasted some worms, beetles, and a mole that I killed when I found it in the dirt that I dug up while making the fire pit holes. A mole is like a small mouse that lives in a hole in the ground. I sprinkled some dirt thinly over the meat to give the food an earthy flavor. They tasted awful when I roasted them, but I liked the way they crunched. The first few, the worms, I didn’t cook long enough because I felt them squirming in my mouth. I had to swallow without chewing them. I didn’t want to chew because I didn’t want the guts to squirt all around the inside my mouth.”

The kids both gagged. Lily recovered first and said, “Really? You ate worms?”

          “Yes, really. I needed food and the worms and other things were right there on the ground or in the ground. So convenient. Eating them would help energize me, as well as save some of my dwindling pemmican.”

“That’s so nasty!” uttered Lily, her expression full of disgust.

“Might as well have eaten dog poo,” Slone said with a mischievous smile,” then quickly asked, “How did you wipe your mule after you pooped?” He and Lily screamed with hysterical laughter, then quickly held their aching stomach muscles while huffing and puffing with short breaths.”

I knew that Nana and Mara were still listening. I could hear their muffled groans.

Then I said, “The worm part of the eating was not true, neither was the sprinkling of dirt. I was joking, and no more poo questions. It’s gross and embarrassing.” I gave them a mean, serious look. They got quiet. “Let me continue now.”

                                       *******

“After eating, I grew tired, but I walked about one-hundred yards away from where I’d built the fire. Even though you think you’ve taken every precaution to hide the smell, there are some people who could still find my tracks or even smell what I thought couldn’t be smelled. If I was stupid enough to rest by my fire pits, then my stupidity could give Swift Arrow and easy kill. I stopped by a large spruce tree, its lowest branches spreading out about six feet and only a foot above the ground. I circled to the opposite side of where my tracks may be found, cleared out a space and hid under the lower branches. In a breeze, the lower branches looked as if they were sweeping the ground area as a broom would sweep the floor. I sat uncomfortably between lower branches and leaned against the tree. A sudden noise grabbed my ear. I snapped into alert mode when I thought I heard faint, ghostly noises. It turned out to be Swift Arrow’s gang singing and laughing. That was stupid and careless of them because it let me know in what direction they were and gave me an estimate of how far away they were. I found a sturdier tree, climbed, and looked to their direction, a few miles in the distance. I could see a patch of light. They had built a fire above ground. I was happy to see that they were still a long distance away from me. If they had built a fire like mine, I would not have seen their firelight and I would be more tense not knowing where they were. Sound carries far at night, so without the fire, it would have been difficult to tell how far away they were. Swift Arrow was a real shithead with little common sense. I stopped myself. ‘Shiphead.’ “I mean ‘shiphead’ you know, the captain of a ship.”

There was no knock or bang against the door, so I was relieved to think I had gotten away with the poo-head word.

“No, you didn’t Da. You said the other word for poo. The word that means there’d poo on someone’s head. The one Nana and Mom don’t like us to say.”

“Well kids. You know I would never say a word like that. It’s a stinky, crappy word that you shouldn’t use. You should stop thinking so much about the word ‘shit,’ which I never would say to you.”

Silence from behind the cabin door. Silent kids staring at me. Mouths open, eyes bulging with surprise at the sound of that forbidden word.

Together, they shouted, “You just said that word.”

          “What word? What’re you guys talkin’ about?”

“You said it. You said you wouldn’t say it, but then you did say it.”

          Lily and Slone were both excitedly pointing a finger at me and laughing.

          “Come on my dear children. What’s the matter with saying the word, ‘it?’”

“No, Da,” Lily giggled. “You said the word that means ‘poo.’”

Slone couldn’t sit still. He kept squeezing his buttocks which made him bounce up and down. He said, “You’re teasing us. You know you said the word that means poo and you told us you would never say that word to us.”

“The other word that means poo. Oh, now I understand. You thought you heard me say ‘crap’ or ‘turd,’ but I don’t remember saying either of those words that mean poo”

Out of frustration, Slone screamed, “We mean the bad word for poo.”

“Oh? You must mean, ‘shit?’ Oh, no, of course I wouldn’t say that word. What’s the matter with you two? You’ll have to get your ears checked.” Da leaned forward to whisper to into the kid’s ears. “Let me test your ears because you’re hearing things. Listen…. Did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear anything. What was it?”

“I farted and you didn’t hear it. Well now. Guess what? That nasty word for poo? You didn’t hear that either, even though I said it. Wait… Listen… Did you hear that little one?”

“Yeah! A squeaker, right?”

Lily looked confused.

“Well, that time I did not fart. See? You said you heard it, but I didn’t do it. So, you are hearing things. Right?

Slone fell against Lily’s shoulder and Lily fell into Slone’s shoulder. They were rolling on the porch carelessly, rolled off the porch about a foot then rolled on the ground with intense stomach-pain laughter.

Peeking through the small door opening, I saw my wife’s face. She was not pleased with me. A bad influence on the kids.

“OK, OK. I did say that word. It was a mistake. That word starts with the ‘sh’ sound, like shhhh and ends with ‘it’ so let’s not ‘shhh-it’ and continue.

More guilty laughter from the kids.

“OK, now. Be quiet.”

But tears were streaming down their faces and mucus flowed from their noses, so I had to wait before I could continue the story. While the kids were distracted, two rags came flying out the doorway, one onto my shoulder, the other hanging down from my head. The kids saw how funny the rags made me appear and restarted their laughter, so I made funny faces at them, that those hidden behind the door couldn’t see. I casually pulled the rags off and threw them at my grandkids, saying, “These are rags made from my old underwear that your mom and grandma now use as cleaning rags. They choked on the humor, and their laughter did not stop. I had to wait.

                                       CHAPTER 15

“I woke prior to dawn in a low fog. It made the air colder, but the visibility was poor. The low fog moistened whatever lay on the ground. That made for a happy morning. Grabbing a pemmican ball, I ate half of it. It was good to look into the bag and see more of them.”

          “The morning had been silent, not even animal sounds, so when I did hear the noise, it startled me. My head snapped in that direction. The noise sounded like the muffled snapping of a dry twig buried in moist leaves. Did Swift Arrow silently leave his night camp to catch up to me? Damn. Did he just outsmart me? All the noise and the easily seen fire was needed to catch me off guard. Why didn’t I think of that? I had a picture in my head of Raven Feathers making the sign for ‘fool.’ I hid behind the Spruce tree. The fog was too heavy to see much farther than ten or fifteen feet. We could suddenly appear out of the fog and end up face to face. I had to avoid that since his friends probably were not far behind him. Late at night they must have put out their fire, stayed quiet, as if sleeping, then depended on luck to catch me off guard. I underestimated the devil.

I backed away noiselessly, keeping the spruce tree between the direction of the noise and myself. The ground was moist and soft so there was no sound. I was backing up under a tree with a solid, low branch. I set my bag down then stretched my arms upward and grabbed the branch. I pulled myself up onto that branch and peeked around the tree trunk. I heard the movement of forest growth, something brushing against a bush or a tree. Then I saw the fog parting as if it were splitting to make way for something passing through it. I saw hair and a headband, followed by an unclear face. As the shape came closer, looking at the ground for tracks, I saw that it was Star Watcher, not Swift Arrow. A few seconds later I could see most of his body. He would not be alone, so the others must have spread out to search more ground. He spotted something on the ground and veered in my direction. He was bent over the ground, searching, as he approached my tree. He brushed the leaves and twigs away from one spot thinking there may be a track underneath or a depression in the dirt where a foot pressed down but left no track on the surface but did leave a track under the ground debris. He didn’t look upward. When he was under the limb that I was perched on, I dropped onto him, hitting him on the crown of his head with the metal butt end of my hunting knife. He fell instantly unconscious. I tied his hands and feet, took his knife, tomahawk, food, and anything I felt might be useful. I placed his knife and tomahawk on the other side of the braided leather cords that served as my belt. The other things went into my cloth bag. As I got up to go, a thought struck me. His friends would find him, cut him free, give him a spare weapon and he’ll still be helping to catch me. I took off his moccasins and put them in my bag. He didn’t have a spare pair, but someone would, and he’d be given those spare moccasins and he’d still be after me. That would be foolish of me. What I needed was to reduce the amount of pursuers. He was bare footed now, lying on his back. I turned him on his belly with the soles of his feet facing up at me. With the knife already in my hand I didn’t hesitate. I slashed deeply into each big toe and each heel. Not only would he not be able to follow me again, but he would need help returning to the village. That meant two less pursuers. That’s the smart way to do it, I thought, if another opportunity like this one presents itself.

“Wise Rabbit was Star Watcher’s best friend, so I guessed that he would take Star Watcher back to their village. I wasn’t sure how many pursuers I had, but it felt good to know that there were two less than before. They were always too far away when I observed them.

“I heard a distant noise, panicked, and ran in the opposite direction. While looking back over my shoulder, I thought I saw Bloody Hands, his hands painted red. Did he join the group so that Swift Arrow would not shame him, or because of his hatred of me, or both? He was the leader of the raiding group that captured me. I didn’t see his face. What I saw was a pair of large hands painted red. If he killed me, his hands would be painted with my blood and many stories would be told about his fierceness and courage.

“Too much thinking, I told myself. Not enough caution. Fear and panic fogged my mind. Like balls of cotton filling up the inside of my skull. I was shocked when I carelessly stepped into a shallow depression, fell, and banged my chin into an above-ground tree root. I had bitten my lip and now blood was streaming over my lip and onto my chin. I didn’t deal with it, no time for that. I felt pathetically stupid even though I knew it was so easy to get hurt when you are lost in a dense forest of dangers that surrounded you but are not focused on, like a twig at the very edge of a branch that pokes you in the eye, or a sharp rock edge buried in the leaves, but when stepped on causes a bruise that hampers your desperate need to travel fast, then the pain distracts you.

“Raven Feathers image appeared in my mind, making the sign for ‘foolish.’ I had to walk and feel my way silently through the forest fog and my mental fog. I consoled myself by thinking that I had lost them, at least temporarily. But I berated myself for allowing them to get so much closer and it was only the fog that saved me. As I walked quietly, I thought of the two pursuers who quit the search: Beaver Runs and Strong Winds. 

“What’s so funny now?” I asked. Then, quickly I stated, “Oh, I know,’ as the kids touched forehead and giggled.

“How strong was his wind, Da?” Slone stated, trying to keep a straight face.

“Was it like a puff or air, or a gentle breeze, or it was strong rush of air?” interjected Lily.

I did not want to get into a tope of farts again, nor a measure of their velocity, so I ignored them, as they looked at each other with sad expressions.

I continued the story. “When they returned to the village, they must have told their story to everyone, making Bloody Hands especially angry that his son could not even catch a lost white boy. He must have felt so shamed, and he had disliked me so much that he raced to catch up with his son to put an end to his shame by putting an end to me and guiding his son’s decisions.

“My mood was of bitter anger and doomed sadness. I wasn’t going to get away, I told myself. Too many pursuers. When Bloody Hands can’t find clues to my passage going east, he would know I eluded him and had gone west. He’ll send a couple of boys north and south to check for tracks. He and the young warriors would eventually find some sign of my passage. A bird flew low over my head. I had no time to wonder what or why. I was too busy hiding my tracks. Few of my tracks appeared because I was on a slope with good drainage. The ground was dry with a layer of pine needles, leaves blown off prematurely, twigs everywhere. I saw another large spruce tree and climbed under the sprawling ground branches. I pulled branches downward to cover me even better when I saw a well-hidden bird’s nest. It looked empty, but the inside was warm. The mother bird must have been the bird that flew low over my head. Two warm eggs lay in the nest. I ate them quickly. If I were lucky, I would be passed by and go unnoticed. I waited and saw a figure walking slowly and cautiously. I exhaled a silent sigh of relief. When he was out of sight, I walked westerly as they walked easterly, the direction I was supposed to be going. My hands trembled when I remembered Raven Feathers warning about Bloody Hands. She said, “Bloody Hands’ spirit lived on the hidden, back side of the moon with other darkest of evil spirits.” I knew right away she meant he lived on the dark side of the moon, in that shadowy world full of frightful thoughts and actions.

“As I had learned from experience, the fog would disappear in a couple of hours; the sun would scare it away. Shortly after the fog disappeared, I came to a creek that flowed in an easterly direction, the way I was supposed to be going, but going east is what would be expected of me. I took off my moccasins and rolled up my pants legs, then walked against the current in a westerly direction. I knew they’d figure it out because of Bloody Hands’ experience. If he was not with my pursuers, I may have lost them for good when I change directions. I think that would have fooled Swift Arrow and none of his friends would have verbally disagreed with him even if they did disagree with him. At least it would lengthen the distance between us. I worried about Bloody Hands. I was no match for a highly skilled, and supremely violent warrior as he was. I remembered all the times he had stared at me on our long trip west to his village. Each time he stared at me, I saw his tomahawk flying at my head and getting closer each time he glared at me. I asked myself, dozens of times, When will my head split open and extinguish the light of my life as my head was sliced open like a pumpkin.

“It would take them ten or twenty minutes to see my simple trick. I wanted to put more time and distance between us, so when I found a wet, soggy area near the creek bank, with a large dry rock nearby, I pulled myself onto it. The dripping water and foot prints stained the rock. I stripped off my shirt and rubbed the wetness to remove as much as possible, so it would dry quicker and not leave a clue for them. Hopefully, what was left of the wetness would be dry before they could see it. I eased myself into the soggy spot. When I pulled my foot out, the suction held me for a second, but when my foot was out, the indentation I left behind was swallowed up by the mud. I took the opportunity to discolor my clothes with mud, my face and hair, also. I might get fifteen minutes more ahead of them with this maneuver. When found, I would be expected to turn east again. No use travelling north toward Lake Ontario because that would be going back into Iroquois territory. I went south toward what Raven Feathers called the ‘Bad Smelling Waters,’ (now called the Cattaraugus Creek).

 “Along the way I stopped at ‘blowdown,’ a fallen tree. It looked as if it was uprooted by the furious wind of a storm. Standing on its rooted end I could see that a huge chunk of ground was ripped up and the dirt was held together in an irregular circle shape by plenty of roots of assorted sizes. It looked like a giant spider web making an uneven, disjointed circle of dirt that was being held together by tree roots of all sizes. I walked half way down the fallen tree, over all the protruding, dead branches and jumped off leaving tracks as I took two more steps. I stopped, carefully walked backwards, and put my feet into each track that left by my jump. I then climbed back on the tree, walked back to the uprooted section, climbed up the roots, trying not to disturb the dirt or break a dead root. I did this because at the top of the uprooted section of the tree was a branch from another tree that was big enough for me to jump onto. I did that, moved hand over hand to the trunk of the tree and stepped around to the opposite side of the ‘blowdown.’ I lowered myself slowly and walked off as gently as I could with hopes of delaying their pursuit, thus gaining more separation in distance and time.

“At mid-morning, the fog had lifted, and the sun was greeting all of nature with its bright, warm smile. I could not smile back, nor enjoy it. I felt deep sadness.

                                       *******

“Jogging would be too slow, so I forced myself to run much faster than I’d hoped. I knew that some of the pursuers would have dropped out of the chase by now from exhaustion or frustration, but Swift Arrow and I weren’t the only good runners. Being slower than us was no indication of their long distance running ability. Swift Arrow and I never ran for distance. We usually ran a fast mile and, occasionally, a fast two miles, but no longer distances.

“I remember Raven Feathers teaching me a lesson in wilderness survival. “To win,” she said, “long race, you need beat you tired, sore body. You head control body, make body do what head say. You make laugh at chasers. They get mad, get tired, they want quit. Not you. You mad make them. You head be strong. They scream like mountain cat; they howl like crazy wolf, but no catch my white son.”

I focused on running but could only trot as I tried to bear the aches and pains so I could continue to run. I could no longer run fast. Too many obstacles and no straight route through the forest. The pain was like having a pebble in each of my moccasins, always demanding my attention. Keep going I said hundreds of times which didn’t stop my constant side stitch, nor the nausea and dry vomiting. My food energy was being sprayed onto the ground. I had to be honest with myself. I was weakening fast. I felt the aches and pains from my pulsating headache to my trembling thighs, then down to my calf cramps and battered feet. My knee was better, though, or was it that the other pains were worse?”

“I found myself in a dream-like state, sometimes staggering but with one stationary object to look at. It was a distant tree, a bush, or a boulder. I was focused on that object and the simple joy I felt as the object enlarged the closer I got, was enough to distract me from thinking about pain, sadness, frustration, and defeat. Then another object in the distance became my focus, then another and another.

“Tears, nose mucus and drool often went unnoticed. The bleeding lip stopped by itself, and the blood lay crusty on my cheeks, lips, and chin. I could feel the crust of my dried blood scratching my upper and lower lips. I must have looked like an evil forest spirit. I leaned slightly forward to force myself onward or to fall. Onward. Always onward. When I fell, I heard an inner voice say, “Get up. Get up.” I realized I had started mumbling to myself due to my exhaustion. I listened to my heartbeat in my ears and felt the thumping of my tumescent jugular vein and the artery in my neck. I needed rest. I can rest when I’m home. Move. Move, was echoing in my head. I couldn’t stop it, until I saw the glittering reflections coming off the water.

“I did move but it wasn’t long before I felt dizzy. I sat down rather than fall and injure myself again. Until then I hadn’t noticed or felt all the scratches, cuts, bruises, and bleeding. Those were ignored as I focused on those that were more painful. I sat close to the bank of the Cattaraugus Creek, which was flowing mildly, and not too deeply. I had to get up and keep walking or the rhythm of the rapidly rippling water would put me to sleep. I dragged myself upward until I was standing. Never in my life had the motion of standing-up taken so much effort, so much time, and caused so much pain.

“In a half mile, I noticed the creek getting wider and deeper. I also noticed large wood shavings on the ground and cut trees lying on the ground. A short distance downstream the beavers had built a damn. Upstream from the dam a short distance was a beaver lodge. It’s domed structure stood above the water two or three feet, then descended under the water for another two or three feet. A beaver was on the muddied top of the dome. It was a buck-toothed sentinel.

“I heard yelling in the distance where I had just come from. They’d be here in a brief time. I thought, I didn’t fool them much. I hid my bag under a pine tree, then I staggered to the creek bank. I was so tired that I stumbled head first into the creek. Instinct made me stand up, then walk into deeper water. I bent my knees and sank up to my neck. That was refreshing. The water was mostly clear, so finding the lodge’s opening was not difficult when I fully submerged myself. Beaver’s make their lodge entrance so that the current will carry them right into the entrance. They must swim against the stream to exit their home. I was sucked slowly into the entrance, but it was too small. Quickly I removed and bent a few sticks to widen the hole and I entered. I surfaced into the part of the lodge dome that is above water level so I could breathe. The beavers had built a shelf slightly above the water line with small branches, twigs, weeds, and mud where they could get out of the water to dry off. I was more afraid of my pursuers than I was of the beavers. They looked confused. Poor things. I was probably more scared of them than they scared of me.

“A brief time later, I heard Swift Arrow’s group, first in a conversation tone, then an argumentative tone which turned to anger and disagreement. I heard a splash as one of my pursuers ran into the water. From the sound of his voice, I thought it was Slim Boy who then climbed onto the outside of the dome. He angrily started to dismantle the top of the dome so he could look inside. I felt helpless to do anything about the activity above me and the chattering, angry looking beavers. If one of them sank its teeth into me, my life was over. The dome opened slightly, letting in daylight, then suddenly a breaking, ripping sound and more daylight. Slim Boy’s arm suddenly crashed through the dome. His arm descending through the dome to its full length. Before he could pull his arm back out, he screamed in agonizing pain having found a mouth so strong it could chew down trees. Two of his fingers dropped into the water as another elongated scream shattered the air. Instinctively he yanked his arm out of the hole. I came out from being submerged under the shelf in time to see the fingers sinking and the water turning red as a flow of blood poured into the pool forming a stream of swirling pink like a delicate, pink, silk scarf. The boy had yanked his arm out so quickly, due to his severed fingers, only to jam a splintered branch into the inside of his upper arm near his arm pit. The sharp splinter was covered in blood, as was the area surrounding the dome hole. I kept my distance from the beavers, made no threats with voice or muscle. I heard the splash as Slim Boy fell off the dome and into the creek water. More splashing noises came to get him out of the water. Once on shore Slim Boy gasped loudly, like a fish out of water, and was unable to talk. His screaming ended as he passed out then died quickly from loss of blood. He died so fast that the splinter must have hit a major blood vessel, I guessed.

“His fellow young warriors were furious and in disarray, some wanting to call off the hunt, others wanted to continue the hunt to seek revenge. I learned their language, so I heard Bloody Hands threatening the ones wanting to leave. The word for ‘knife’ was used by several voices. Bloody Hands stared at his son, wanting to see leadership and courage. Swift Arrow screamed, saying, “Roast butt. Slice off, cook. Delicious. Feed Black Kettle. We laugh when eat him. He no laugh when eat self.” That was my interpretation of his fierce words. The disturbed young warriors who remained, grew quiet. Then Swift Arrow ordered Little Bear to ‘tree’ Slim Boy’s body. I knew that when, on rare occasions, a body could not be buried, it was hung high in a tree branch. I could hear Little Bear’s struggling efforts to ‘tree’ the body. I heard him huffing and puffing as he walked away.

“In those days, kids, the Seneca dead were buried in an oval hole in the ground, about four to five feet deep. The dead body was placed in the hole, heels touching buttocks, as if squatting, with the remainder of the body, from waist to head, remained upright and facing east to catch the rising sun. When the digging stopped, and dirt filled the hole’s empty spaces. The dirt was pounded down with stomping feet. The remaining dirt was thrown into a body of water, if one was near; if not then the dirt was spread thinly over the surrounding area to keep the grave hidden. The flat area directly over the grave was covered with dead vegetation, then covered with dead branches, logs, and rocks. I couldn’t hear them clearly but understood enough to know that they departed the area quickly. If there was no time to bury the person, then ‘treeing’ the body was performed.

“When I thought Little Bear was gone, I heard him scream in rage, “Raven Feathers warned of terrible happen things! It happen now. I, Little Bear, not chase no more. If shameful to be wise and no follow the one protected by spirits, then I return in shame but wiser.” He screamed as he continued to walk away, but I did not understand him. I decided to be more cautious and stay inside the dome until dark.

“Darkness came, so I swam out of the beaver lodge quietly, then swam upstream into an area of cattails growing at the edge of the water. I stayed there until I was sure my followers were gone. While I waited, I quietly pulled cattails out of the soft, moist earth and cut off the tubers. Boiled or roasted they were tasty.

 “A bullfrog grumbled at my intrusion. I had to swim under water to the side of the creek where I had hidden my bag, then I struggled to swim back to the other side, trying not to get the bag wet. Again, I waited in the cattails, then crawled ashore. I was chilled from the long time in the chilly water. My body shivered in response to the cool night air. Goose flesh riddled my arms and legs. I needed an emergency fire for warmth and to dry my clothes. On all fours, I crawled to a copse of tree, stopping to listen every few yards.

“I could not build a quick campfire. I had to make another two-holed fire because it had to burn longer than before. I dug the two holes deeper, breaking fingernails and cutting skin. A small branch helped with the finishing work. I made sure nothing could be viewed from the river bank in case my pursuers circled back. When I had the fire started in the hole, air rushed into it from the other hole to make a fast, hot burn. I blocked the air hole partially to maintain a slower, but still hot burn. Three dead branches, equally spaced and pushed into the soil around the fire created a tripod. I stood naked near the warm updraft, as my clothes hung on the tripod. I kept turning my body as one does when roasting meat. For food, I roasted the cattail tubers.

“When the clothes and I were dry, I dressed and felt more relaxed, so I ate nuts and more pemmican from my bag. I sat with my back against a tree near the fire. I relaxed for a brief time, got up, completed the ‘call of nature,’ and then pushed the dirt over the embers to fill each hole. I disguised them with pine needles, leaves, and twigs, as I had done with the first fire, then returned to the tree. I took a deep breath, let it out, then slowly inhaled through my nose. I didn’t smell anything that would indicate that I was here.

“In the darkness, familiar objects change, what dim light there is, into another world where even the most recognizable, and familiar objects transform into something else; something much more ominous than when seen in the daylight. Trees become evil sentinels with arms and hands grasping for you, threatening you, wanting to kill you, or they transform into evil things, creatures to fear, but mostly misshapen monsters clothed in darkness, not easily seen in the shadows. Other objects become shape shifters which makes them more frightening. Darkness invents evil spirits, and our fear of darkness enhances the threat.

“Bushes? Not harmful, nor helpful, just existing as neutral entities until darkness breathes life into them. Then they wield poison darts and stab you as you pass too closely. Weeds become blades, boulders become misshapen faces, and bulging eyed monsters that desire to crush the life out of you, to suck your spilled blood for nourishment and to eat your flesh for dessert. Salivating, evil ghouls are everywhere. No shadow is harmless in the dark. A bulge in a tree is a wild creature waiting for you to pass by it, or for you to fall asleep, or a finger-like root crawls up from the ground to trip you, causing you to fall to your doom. Moonlight reflections become eyes in search of you, and once familiar noises become distress signals that warn about danger from all angles. You are surrounded, you feel imprisoned, unable to move, unable to make decisions, leading to fear and a panic that grows each minute, while you stand on the quicksand that you thought was solid ground. There is nowhere to run for safety. Only daylight can banish the evil images and the overpowering thoughts that have you gripped in the threatening cloak of your own making. Even breezes that disturb tree branches, bushes and weeds become the voices of your deadly creations. You strain to hear their ghostly whispers, then feel as if an ear was bitten off. You imagine a leaf is your ear lying beside your feet. You feel blood dripping down your chin, when no such thing has happened. Nocturnal animals march at you with gnashing fangs, razor claws seeking you for bloodied food or simply for fun. And ground twigs multiply into snakes that only move toward you when you look away from them. So, then you stare at them, but with very blink they move and inch closer. To fall asleep means a horrible death. You must stay awake until daylight rescues you. It did rescue me. The rising sun calmed me, but my mind was focused on my need to escape, to live to see my family. Raven Feathers once told me that life without family was bland and, like food, a family needed salt, pepper, spices, and herbs.

Have you two ever had those scary feelings when you’re in the dark?”

“Isn’t everyone scared of the dark?” asked Slone

“Heck, Slone. I’m scared whenever I see your face,” responded Lily.

“Well, you’re not a rose. You’re face looks like the thorny stem.”

“You know, a few people don’t fear the dark. They like the dark, feel comfortable in the dark and nighttime offers a good feeling to them,” I stated.

Slone asked, “Are you afraid of the dark, Da?”

“A little bit, but not nearly as much as when I was a kid.”

The kids seemed lost in thought. No more questions. I noticed that they asked fewer questions as the story approached the end. It was the most exciting part and they didn’t want me to stop, even for their questions.

                             CHAPTER 16

“I ran into the creek where it was shallow, and I swam where it was deep. My pursuers must be wondering why I was going south. I started to question myself as I sat to rub out the pain in the soles of my feet. I wasn’t totally used to the moccasins yet but would probably never get used to the pain of creek stones. Out of exhaustion I looked at the sun briefly, squinting at it. I had been travelling south for too long and with marvelous subtlety the creek was turning to the west. Again, I saw Raven Feathers’s hand sign for ‘fool.’ What was the matter with me? I shook my head violently only to bring on a headache. I knew that headaches are often signs of dehydration. I should be drinking more, so I drank, but not too much or I’d get cramps and vomit.

“After walking on painful creek stones and tired of swimming, I felt as if my thoughts were dizzy, the forest swirling, my breathing and heart straining, the sound of blood rushing in my ears. As awful as I must look, this terrain looked like a beautiful, sunlit painting; a different angle of my head made the painting brighter or dimmer, the shadows sharper or dimmer, harmless in daylight. I tried to clear my head by blinking and squinting. It didn’t work. Pain would be on the menu for my day.

“When I tried to run along the river bank the landscape ahead of me kept bouncing up and down making my eyes hurt. I knew it was me doing the bouncing, but it seemed otherwise as lightheadedness had control over my vision. I saw illusions of big black birds and laughed at my silliness.

“My sight and thoughts narrowed as if I were wearing blinders and could only see down a narrow ally in front of me. I heard Raven Feathers’s voice which I interpreted as, “Run long. Stay ahead. Embarrass followers. Make angry. Make weak. Go catch rising sun.” Again, I focused on a distance object then trotted or walked to it, then another object, and another. This carried me forward, even when my feet staggered, my shoulders sagged, my head bent forward, and my exhaling breath whistled as the sweat dripped off me.

“To be captured meant death. My life now was all about ‘life and death.’ I remember Swift Arrow taunting me with his repetitious slap on his buttocks. I didn’t know what the fool was trying to say. So, despite my aching shoulders, neck, arms, and legs, plus a dry mouth that was catching bugs as I ran and trying to spit them out when there was no spit, I kept moving forward. I could feel and see that my eyelids were drooping as if I were already half asleep. My world became whatever was directly in front of me, as I continued into Mother Nature’s arms. All else was inconsequential. As I drank more water, I fell to my knees, stupidly smiling because my hurt knee no longer hurt. Was it numb? I succumbed to the ground and lay down, then I blacked out, not so much from pain as it was from sheer exhaustion. For a few seconds, though, it was a superb feeling of rest, floating on a soft bed within a cloud, the sun’s warmth blanketing me.”

Slone asked, “If you were caught, how do you think they would torture you?

“Slone, that’s an awful question to ask. Quit being a smart mule,” Lily said rather sternly and not wanting to know.”

“I would be torture brutally if they got me back to their village, but I doubt that they would do that. They’d probably kill me fast out in the wilderness. No more questions about that, please.”

“Back to the story. I woke at dusk and touched my body all over thinking, I must be wounded or dead. But I felt no wounds and the pain I was in proved that I wasn’t dead, though I was beginning to think about death. I rallied and ate the last half of a pemmican ball. My prepared food was gone.

 “I found a ground indentation with tall weeds around and in it and it was behind a bush which would give me greater concealment. I tried to sleep there. It didn’t happen because I was taught that the cool ground would absorb my body heat, leaving me cold and worse off than before and could possibly be deadly. I saw the ‘fool’ sign. I staggered to find a tree with a low crotch. When I found one, I straddled it as if it were a horse between my legs. I bent forward, placed my head on my folded arms, as a pillow, onto the branch. I slept for short periods, always startling myself awake, listening and looking for danger. I also woke a few times to stop myself from falling. It proved to be of little worth. In the morning I found edible flower shoots, dug up grubs and worms, ate some inside lining of pine tree bark, because, though edible, the bark is tough and chewy. Then, to my surprise, I saw a rabbit, downwind of me. Weak as I was, I gathered my strength, slowly raised then threw the tomahawk. I missed a killing blow, but I hit a hind leg and the shock immobilized the rabbit for a few seconds as I ran and grabbed it. I rung its neck quickly to be humane. After I emptied its inner body contents, I skinned it. I built a fast campfire, so I could roast the rabbit quickly to satisfy my hunger. I ate both hind legs and washed the meat down with plenty of water. I stopped eating, though I wanted more, much more. I would only vomit if I ate too much. Wasting the food would be foolish. The remaining cooked meat went into my shoulder bag.     In an hour I was ready to travel. I felt good with the nourishment of meat in my stomach and some time to rest.

                             CHAPTER 17

I continued my journey looking for the only river that Raven Feathers said was in Iroquois territory and that it ran north to empty into a great lake.” The only river in New York that runs true north”? I paused and thought, That should be easy to find. The Iroquois name Raven Feathers used sounded like ‘gee-knee-see.’ The first letter of the first part sounded like the ‘g’ in ‘goat’ as if coming from deep within the throat. She said the name meant ‘pleasant valley,’ To help remember it better I made it sound more English. I remembered it with an easier pronunciation. I pronounced it as ‘genesee,’ with the ‘g’ sounding like the ‘g’ in ‘gentle.’ And now, kids, some map makers are using that Iroquois name to label it the Genesee River (Pleasant Valley River) on their maps. I knew it wouldn’t be difficult to recognize. It runs to the left of the morning sun and to the right of the setting sun. I knew that when I found it, I’d be less confused and unsure of my travel direction and destination. But I didn’t intend to go north, back into the heart of Iroquois country. I did decide to follow the river north for a mile, something that my pursuers would not expect. But after that mile, I’d turn southeast and search for the Canisteo River (Where The Milkweeds Are).

I wondered if I’d have time to build a raft. No, came my immediate answer. It would take too much effort and time, plus, chopping trees would give away my position and searching for dead logs big enough for a raft would be foolish. Raven Feathers’ image popped into me head when I said the word ‘foolish.’ ’The only way to travel in dense forest is on two feet or on the river. I wanted to find a dry log so I could float down the river and lose my pursuers, but the river flowed the wrong way. I now put ‘river travel’ out of my mind. I remember laughing at myself, thinking, I must be ‘out of my mind’ to have even considered that idea. But I knew that, at times, I was out of my mind, not thinking clearly.

Being in a wonderful daydream of impending success at soon finding the Genesee River and escaping Swift Arrow and Bloody Hands, I slowed to a casual walk. Soon, however, the hairs on my forearms stiffened. I stopped, kneeled, and swallowed hard, almost gagging on my own spit. I listened, totally focused on noises, especially noises that were not related to animals or nature. The wind was mild, he trees quiet. All birds, animals, and insect noises that I had been used to all around me had stopped. To my terrifying surprise, the noise sounded human, and not ahead of me, but behind me. I asked myself, How could Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow be following me that closely? Hadn’t I fooled them at all? Maybe it wasn’t them, I thought. I listened and searched as I pulled out my knife and tomahawk.

“Then a deep throated growl grasped my attention. Out of the inky shadows of the trees came the head of a wolf, then another, then two more. As if Swift Arrow and his father weren’t enough to have on my mind. However, I was grateful it wasn’t them in close pursuit. My sweaty hands were still on my knife handle and my tomahawk was within a quick reach. They were dangerous animals, especially when hungry. Had hungry wolves found me, despite me being told that wolves seldom bothered men unless the wolves were desperate for their own survival. Were these ‘desperate’ wolves?

“The wolves didn’t surround me as I had expected. Three of them were in front forming a triangle. They stood closest to me. One wolf, smaller, was off to the side, moving slowly as it whimpered. That one looked sickly, ribs protruding, severe weight loss and mangy fur. Probably had plenty of ticks and fleas eating at it. As the wolves spread out, I got a clearer view of the sick wolf that was holding back. It was a female. I could see her teats. I guessed that she had just given birth. She and her companions wouldn’t be traveling if she gave birth to live pups. Oh, I thought, sadly, the pups are dead. It was easy to conclude that being in poor health, the pups were born dead. But the bared ribs meant hunger.

“Her mangy appearance seemed to come from dirt and dried mud, not ticks or fleas and the sickness looked more like hanging her head down due to exhaustion from traveling a long distance without enough food. I supposed that she hadn’t been able to rest nor eat for a few days. Why? I wondered. The other wolves could hunt for meat. Maybe something stopped them from hunting.

“Of course, I knew I was in danger because wolves, three males and one weakened female, are much more dangerous when protecting their young or unborn young and a reproducing female. The pups had died, but she could still give birth and was worth protecting.

“When they were walking the sick she-wolf appeared strained, as if her legs were hurt. She hobbled, staggered, and was unbalanced when she walked. One leg was held slightly off the ground so only one leg was injured, but by what? I also noticed that about four feet behind her, the grass was bending. Was something following her? If so, why didn’t the Alpha wolf remove the danger to the female?

“I tried to remain calm, but it was impossible when seeing their teeth and hearing their deep, grinding growls. I knew it was a trick of my eyes, but their eyes flashed reflecting moon light as if it was a characteristic of their eyes when seeing danger or prey. I noticed the feel of my knife and tomahawk in my hands. I only like to kill for food but may need to kill to defend myself.

“When the she-wolf whimpered, the group settled. The growling and bared teeth vanished. Then the alpha wolf stepped forward. He proceeded to walk slowly; head lowered to the ground as if his jaw would drag at any moment. Gray Cloud had said, if ever wolves confronted me, I should turn my body sideways and look at them over a raised shoulder that would protect my neck. Turning sideways and facing the wolf was only minimal protection because the side of the neck, shoulder, arm, and ribs are less vulnerable than the front of the neck and stomach area where ripping open the jugular vein or artery would make me bleed out quickly, plus a sliced or bitten stomach would spill my guts. Then the smell and sight of my blood pooling on the ground alongside of my guts would drive them to a frenzy of butchering me.

“I stood with my left shoulder forward and raised to protect the side of my neck. I looked over my shoulder towards the alpha male. I had my knife in my left hand, to bring it up into a leaping wolf’s neck, chest, or stomach, but their instinctive first move is the neck. The tomahawk was in my right hand for a powerful cut into the side of the body, or a vertical plunge of the hawk into the cranium, like splitting firewood into smaller pieces. I was being overly optimistic, silly, scared, but not panicked.

“I waited, assessing the situation as I backed up a few feet. The alpha looked hesitant, and I knew that the other two wolves wouldn’t charge until their leader attacked. But to my surprise, the alpha lay down in the weeds, in a submissive posture, like a dog will do, feet underneath his body and chest to the ground. Then he rolled over to show his stomach, his most vulnerable area. Like a dog, it seemed to be showing friendship and trust. The other two wolves lay down, also. Those actions were so unexpected that my mind didn’t comprehend why they were doing it. What’s going on? I asked myself.

“I readjusted the other knife and ax in case I needed to get to them quickly. It was a terrorizing situation for me. I felt as if my head was full of stinging bees making it nearly impossible to concentrate. The alpha still looked friendly and playful. That was unnatural.

 “Staring at an animal is often considered a sign of hostility, but I could not take my eyes off the teasingly submissive alpha. The she-wolf looked at me and whimpered more loudly. My feet carried me forward, involuntarily. I circled away from the three wolves and approached the prone female from behind. Immediately I saw the hunter’s trap attached to the female’s hind leg, with a four foot chain that dragged behind her. I approached much closer but only one slow step at a time. The two closest wolves growled with teeth bared. The female whimpered and the alpha rose and dashed at the other two wolves, growling fiercely, and nipping at their necks, a warning was what it looked like. The alpha laid down, so I cautiously kneeled next to the she-wolf’s hind leg where the trap was biting into it. I carefully and slowly spread the trap jaws apart and freed her leg. I poured water on the wound to clean it, and she growled but did nothing. The growl must be from the pain or the relief from pain. From my bag I took one of the soft cloths, cut a strip off, then wrapped and tied it loosely around the wound to keep it clean. When the female sprang up on all four legs, I fell backwards, reaching for my weapons that I had placed on the ground. I stood up quickly prepared to be attacked and I was. Freezing in one position is not a good self-defense. She ran at me, couldn’t jump with her bad leg, so she crashed into my legs, knocking me down onto my back. Before I could react, she was sitting on my chest, butt on my stomach and forefeet near my shoulders. The buzzing in my head was the bees yelling, “Use your weapons,” and it kept repeating in my mind as she lowered her muzzle into my neck, going for a fast kill. The wetness I felt was my warm blood, I thought, thankful that bleeding to death was not painful. Then more wetness streamed down my neck. In a daze, I wondered, how long will it take for me to die? Then wetness on my cheek. It felt like a wet leaf dragging across my cheek. I nearly passed out until I realized that I no longer felt fearful. She would let me die peacefully and painlessly. Was that a smile that I felt stretching my lips? Then I had an urge to lift my head upward near her chest. She was still licking my face. She was drooling. It was saliva not blood that I had been feeling. She was so close to my nose that I could feel and smell her hot breath, which contained no odor of food that I could detect. I thought I might smell the stench of decaying meat on her teeth. I was wrong.

          “All was quiet now. Before I lowered my head, I saw the she-wolf was staring at me, then at the male wolves, especially the Alpha, the leader. I continued to lay on my back and lowered my head to the ground. I was stunned into a stationary, prone position. Something else, too. Something was on her back. Something large and black. The object looked down at me as the she-wolf was also doing. It appeared that the she-wolf had no objections and was comfortable. The blackness was larger than a crow. It made croaking sounds, not ‘cawing’ sounds. It’s bill was thick and curved, not thin, straight and pointed. Definitely not a crow, but a raven. The she-wolf stepped off my chest. I turned over, then stood. I collected my weapons quickly, replaced them on my hip then opened my leather shoulder bag and took out the remaining cooked rabbit. I dropped the meat in front of the she-wolf. As she devoured it, I slipped away, thinking of what Raven Feathers had often said about courage which was, “Be a wolf.” She said something about wolves and ravens being friends. I could believe that now. The raven and wolves were communicating making me safe. My experience was proof of that.

“I continued to walk away. A minute later, when I looked over my shoulder, the mystery wolves were gone. I had an opportunity for fresh meat if I had killed a wolf, but so did they, if they had killed me. I continued walking with a feeling of satisfaction. A raven riding on the back of a she-wolf, I said to myself. Nobody will believe a word of that. Sometimes the truth is unbelievable. But, like my dad, I knew that exaggerating a story’s evil made it more interesting for the listeners, but I wouldn’t have to exaggerate at all, just tell it as it happened.

“Is that really true, Da? Was there a raven really riding on the back of a wolf?” asked Lily.

“I wish I had a raven like that for a pet. That would be awesome,” Slone wished.

“I didn’t reply but continued. A cloud’s shadow moved over the ground. I looked up and saw a partly cloudy, but blue sky. The sun shone brightly on the white puffy clouds making them appear as fluffy as goose down. I was hoping to see rain clouds to block the hot sun and, more importantly, bring rain to cool me, to wash off the sweat and dirt and to satiate my thirst between water sources. Rain would also help me in obliterating evidence of my passing. I walked and jogged onward for a few hours, until I finally came to the ‘Pleasant Valley River,’ the Genesee River, (The only river in New York that runs north.) where I stripped off my clothes and jumped into a shallow inlet. I was sure that I’d finally lost Swift Arrow and his father. If Swift Arrow were still following, he would certainly also be with his best friend, Little Bear. But I knew that Little Bear had quit the hunt. Someone in Swift Arrows arrogant group had a pinch of common sense.

“I felt haunted by the thought that I may have to kill to survive. I’d never killed a person before, never maimed anyone or seriously injured someone, except in my fight with Swift Arrow and a friend of his. Of course, I knew that survival can, and often is, brutal, with bloody actions necessary as well as severe consequences, but when all forms of help fail, then survival is your own responsibility, not someone else’s duty to help you. If I need to kill, I’d kill to survive, to escape, to return home.

“That night, I had a cold camp, no fire. I wanted the warmth, but it was not necessary since the night was cool but not cold. Making a comforting fire could be a deadly mistake. Play it safe, I told myself. I no longer had the cooked rabbit meat, but I did have the cooked liver, kidneys, and heart. I had enough food for a while. That was a great relief since I had run out of Pemmican. I ate too much of it. It should have lasted longer, according to Raven Feathers. As I sat, back against a tree, the night turned evil in my imagination. I guess I’m not as grown up as I thought I was. It seems childish to still have those feeling and illusions.

“In the dark early morning hours, I woke to the rustle of footsteps on dead material that was littered all over the dry ground. Did a bear smell my food? I hadn’t thought of that. I knew a bear’s sense of smell was hundreds of times greater than man’s, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’d been doing too much of that. It’s something I should have thought of and prepared for. I crawled out of a protective bush to a nearby tree with my shoulder bag of supplies. I ducked behind the broad tree and waited in silence. Was the sound that of a bear? It must have smelled the remaining odor of my dinner meat. Had he stopped to smell and listen. I removed my ‘hawk,” and remained motionless until the scratching sounds of claws on bark assaulted me. I looked up into the tree branches. Two moonlit eyes glowed at me. Suddenly the eyes moved downward fast, and dangerously close to my face. I saw the claws and reflexively I struck with my ‘hawk.’ I missed and buried the ‘hawk’ into the bark. I grabbed the spare ‘hawk’ out of my leather, cords-braided belt. I felt my shoulder bag being pulled upward. Not a bear. The feet and claws were too small. It was too dark to see clearly, but it was something medium sized, with claws and aggressively grabbed and dug at the hand holding the bag. It was no scratch either. I could feel the blood dripping off my wrist, but I wouldn’t let go of the bag. Now it had both clawed hands on the shoulder bag, not that it contained much food that an animal would want. “But an animal wouldn’t know that, would he, stupid,” I mumbled to myself. Simply the smell of meat would trigger a powerful urge for action. The bag was being dragged up the tree, but I still had a hold on it with one hand. Then I used my injured hand to help. I pulled with both hands and the bag fell to the ground. It’s a small but strong animal, I thought. The noise it made was shrill, then chattering. I picked up the bag and moved away from the tree to get a better view. I looked up and saw two thieving raccoons. Quickly I dropped the bag, pulled out my knife and threw it at the closer raccoon. Seeing the handle sticking out of its chest, I smiled, thinking ‘meat.’ I field dressed it, built a campfire, cooked it, and ate part of it. The remainder of the day I walked, never staying in one place for long, except to sleep, or try to sleep. That night I couldn’t sleep, so when it started raining, I got up and continued to travel, the rain cooling me, cleansing me, and washing out my tracks. I entered a clearing and walked through the tall weeds, which I normally wouldn’t do, but a high wind, plus the heaviness of rain on the weeds, bent them to the ground. When the sun came out it would dry the rain off the weeds, and they would rise to an upright position to seek the sun. Whatever tracks I may have made would be invisible.

“White men would seek cover, as if the rain were a total nuisance, but in my life with the Seneca rain was no bother. To them it was a nourishment for the corn, beans, squash, and herbs. It not only deadened sounds which was a plus when an enemy had to be attacked in their own village, but what sounds there were, the rain made it difficult to predict the location. Rain also washed out someone’s smell. I was hoping it would do mine. But listening to the rain’s patter on the forest objects, made me drowsy. I fought against sleep because it distracted me from the surrounding sounds. I needed the rain as if we were joined in friendship and the rain was doing me a favor by making my tracks obscure or wiping them out.

“Find the ‘River where the milkweed are,’ called the Canisteo River. I told myself to continue, don’t delay. Go.” I increased my pace and at noon I came to the river. I paused for a rest, but mostly to make sure I was not deviating from Raven Feathers’s escape plan. I was sure I was no longer followed, but if I were, it would only be Swift Arrow and Bloody Hands, and they were now battling what the rain did to my tracks. That mean a delay and my advantage.

“I don’t remember how many days I walked. I tried to keep track of them but couldn’t. There was too much on my mind, desperation, and fear mainly. I was lucky not to have to hunt for food or water. Most of the time I picked it up while travelling. Now more exhausting and boring walking so I could find the Big Horn River. Raven Feathers called it, in English, the ‘Big Horn’ River, but nowadays it’s called by its Iroquois language name, ‘Chemung.’ Once found my expectation for a successful journey home would be like a miraculous dream coming true.

“I looked down and saw a small depression in the ground. It was full with calm water. The sun filtered through the trees exactly right to allow me to see myself. I had lost a lot of weight, the skin on my face was tight, the features more sharp, and my energy was low, but I hadn’t lost hope and the motivation to survive this ordeal.

“I continued, thinking that it was probable that the rain had covered my tracks enough to have lost my pursuers, but then I remembered my great disappointment when I saw that Bloody Hands had joined Swift Arrow and Little Bear. Bloody Hands was not a quitter. He wanted to show his skills to his son. I hung onto the feeling that I was still being followed. The anxiety created by that thought rattled around my brain like a pointed object and that, in turn, created added stress. I had no solution, no peace of mind. I began to think that I was simply delaying death. Why not kill myself and get rid of my mental torturing.

“My overpowering fear of Bloody Hands had haunted and depressed me, sapping my energy and motivation. When I first saw him with my teenaged pursuers I nearly quit and was going to sit down and let them find me. If it hadn’t been for memories and images of Raven Feathers,’ soaring ravens in the sky above me and a raven on a wolf’s back, I would have given up. I didn’t find that out until later, and even then, it was a guess. I had nearly shamed all the boys who could not catch me but now I dreaded knowing that Bloody Hands, my chief physical tormentor on the long trek westward, had now become my mental tormenter. Most certainly he and his son had joined forces. Swift Arrow would have quit by now, I’m certain. I’m also certain that Bloody Hands was constantly disappointed in his son to force him to go on. Bloody Hands would think he could catch me, and he wanted his son to be given credit for that courageous capture. That would go a long way toward making Swift Arrow as respected as a true warrior, a leader and even a chief. Bloody Hands may have thought that his son could, with his help, attain a position of power and then, Bloody Hands could make decisions for him. This would be necessary because Bloody Hands knew he would never gain any more powerful position with the tribe than being the best warrior, the warrior of warriors and the trainer of warriors. Most of the women didn’t like him, were afraid of him. The women controlled who the tribal leaders would be by a vote.

“I constantly dreaded the thought of him and what he would do when he recaptured me. He was an evil spirit. Why didn’t Raven Feathers have more control over him. There had to be a mental struggle going on between them. This time he’d kill me, then take my scalp with the two raven feather as proof that Black Kettle was dead and that the spirit of the raven and Raven Feathers could not save me. That would weaken Raven Feathers’s reputation.

“I had wanted to stomp my feet, cry, and scream but that would lead to my death even sooner, plus I would hate myself for doing it. Then, croaking loudly in the sky, an ‘unkindness’ of raven voices fell from the sky and into my ears. “Be wolf,” croaked the ravens.

Would the ravens still be following me if I weren’t still in danger? I must be terribly wrong about not being pursued any longer. My heart fell into an acid stomach. I fought to stay sane, knowing now that Swift Arrow and Bloody Hands were still on my trail. Bloody Hands on my trail was a hope-shattering thought. Him being on my trail was worse for me because Bloody Hands was an experienced killer and merciless warrior, a sly and brutal hunter of men and animals, but the best warrior and tracker of all the warriors. Then a thought occurred to me. If Swift Arrow is about fifteen years old and his mother had two babies die prematurely, then Bloody Arrow is probably about forty years old. That’s old for a warrior. Age catches up to warriors faster because of their rough, strenuous lives and frequent injuries. Then I vaguely remembered Gray Cloud saying that Bloody Hands has slowed down over the last few years. I thought, ‘a slowed down’ Bloody Hands is still the best warrior, not to be challenged for leadership because the resulting fight would have to be the death of challenger or that of Bloody Hands.

“Trees everywhere and spring weather making the forest bloom with fresh life: leaves, flowers, weeds, plentiful vegetation, berries, wild grapes, and wild apple, plus much more. It was a rebirth of the land and its inhabitants. I spotted the start of shoots for Mule Ear Sunflowers. Just thinking of them lightened my worries, but not by much. We had those wild sunflowers growing not far from our cabin. Spring also meant it would be easy spearing fish because the ice was gone, and the waters in the creeks and rivers were more clear than any glass I had ever encountered, the ones with bubbles, dirt, small particles imbedded in them. I saw them in Albany.

“My rabbit meat was gone; the pemmican was gone. But I still had plenty of roasted raccoon. Eating berries and other edible plants was not providing the energy I needed but the meat helped a lot. My walking had gotten slower, my feet constantly ached. I was complaining, nor stoically enduring like the warriors. When I came to a stream I would place my feet in it, up to the ankle and that was relief, though it didn’t last long once I began worrying about staying in one place. Onward. Eastward. Always the same incantation forcing me to keep walking. Even my spare moccasins didn’t help. My feet were constantly being pounded by the brutal earth and whatever littered its surface. Done over a great distance the wearing away is quick, like a leather rope constantly being pulled at, chewed, scrapped on the ground or against rough objects. My running had become a sluggish, staggering gait, then it turned to a defeated walk, each step painful.

When I came to a pond that Raven Feathers hadn’t mentioned, I saw fish in the clear water and close to the shore. I removed my moccasins, rolled up my pants to the knees and, as silently as possible, stepped into the water, then remained still. As I entered the water, the fish scattered, but seeing no threat, they didn’t go far. When the rippling water of my entrance to the pond had settled calmly, the curious fish came toward my feet. They seemed to like the dirty, sweaty spaces between my toes. I speared the largest one in the group and exited the water. Killing more would be a waste because, unless cooked, the meat would spoil and make me sick. I would prepare the fish, then eat it raw as I walked. I would save the raccoon meat for my nighttime campsite. I was more hungry than I had thought, so I ate the entire fish, then felt guilty for not being more disciplined. I decide to have another nighttime, cold campsite. I’d have to eat parts of the already cooked raccoon.

“As dusk was only a few hours away I wanted to stop early, but I had a mental picture of Raven Feathers in my head that was animated. She was making the sign for ‘you brave’ and saying the words. I could read her lips. She did the same with the ‘no quit’ sign language as well as speaking the words ‘no quit.’

“I became so lost in a tired, day-dreaming mental state that I nearly missed what looked like a path of crushed vegetation going north and south. The ground was disturbed. A gouge of dirt with weeds still in it was turned over. It looked like an earthen scalp. I saw a twig freshly broken. I looked northward and was startled to see him standing there staring at me, an ominous grin bending my lips in deep sorrow, while his eyes boring into me, then a grin that transformed into a broad smile, the kind you save only for a hated foe. He was swinging his tomahawk back and forth in front of him in a taunting gesture. I froze. I couldn’t breathe. My heart stopped beating for a couple seconds. Fear controlled me. Still just a boy, I thought, will this be all there is to my life?

“Me Blackbird. Good day to die, you,” he bellowed in a crazed scream, his voice as deep as a grave, unless he ‘trees’ me by not digging a grave, rather pulling my body up a tree, and leaving me on a branch.

I heard the Iroquois language. He startled me by walking down the trail at me, tomahawk raised high, and making maddening grunts. I dropped my shoulder bag and pulled the tomahawk from my waist with one hand and the knife with the other hand. Instinctive actions.

It wasn’t Bloody Hands at all. He was dressed differently; his hair was in the Mohawk style, but he wasn’t a Mohawk. Death came pounding down the path at me wanting to take my young life. Take my scalp for bragging entertainment stories. Being small in stature and him being tall, I ducked under his hammering swing and sliced his thigh before his knee crashed into my chest. I was thrown backward, out of breath. My knife went flying away as if all my fingers were severed. I felt the pain in my wrist as my knife was knocked out of it. My other hand held my tomahawk as I tried to stand quickly. He kicked me in the ribs, and I fell to the ground, my tomahawk useless. I was hit in the head by his flattened tomahawk. No cut was inflicted but the blow knocked me into semi-consciousness. He was keeping me alive to entertain himself with a longer, taunting fight. But I couldn’t breathe when he suddenly sat on my stomach. Bending forward, he placed his blade under my chin, pressing it against my neck, slowly increasing the pressure, then sliding it side to side as if cutting meat. I closed my eyes waiting for death. I hoped it would come quickly. My thoughts were with my family.

He paused, learned back, crushing my stomach, again, so that I felt as if I would vomit. I was disappointed when I saw the cut I had made to his thigh. It wasn’t much to speak of, certainly not worthy of bragging, if I lived. He looked down cruelly at my face as it contorted in the struggle to breath. My arms were pinned to the ground by his knees and shins. He smiled and made guttural sounds, perhaps a victory song. I would pass out soon if I didn’t get more air. He was middle aged but at the young end of it, I guessed, unusually tall, with broad muscled arms, shoulders, and a muscle heavy chest. He reached for my topknot preparing to scalp me before he cut my throat. But I was not scalped. Instead, he eased the pressure on my stomach, and I took several gulps of air, filling my lungs, as if I were sick, or having a heart attack. Silly, I thought. He jumped off my body, still on his knees, then pulled one of the raven feathers from my hair. He stared at it then reached to his own hair and pulled out one of his crow feathers. He put one in each hand, side by side to study them. Confusion shadowed his face, then fear showed, as he asked, “Where you get?” as he threatened me with his knife.

Before I could answer I saw blackness like a dark cloud descending from the sky and flashing before my eyes. It wasn’t death. I was alive and now conscious, but Blackbird was bleeding from under one eye. Blackness streaked over me again, knocking Blackbird backwards. Huge wings flapped threateningly, and a thick, black beak continuously stabbed at Blackbird’s eyes. He dropped his menacing knife. The raven avoided Blackbird’s swinging arms as I tried to defend myself against an opponent I had never fought before. I was clawed on my shoulder more deeply than my knife did to his thigh. Blackbird covered his head when the raven flew at him again, clawing at his hair and scalp. His forehead got racked with a horizontal slash when he reached upward to grab at the raven’s feet. That hand was stabbed by the sturdy, thick raven’s beak. Blackbird didn’t try to regain his knife, nor did he reach for his tomahawk. The raven was sitting on my chest now as it looked into the sky. A group of ‘unkindness’(ravens) circled the sky above me. Blackbird starred at the raven with its threatening, wide open wings, thrusting beak and ear splitting croaks. I saw fear in Blackbird’s eyes as his body became ridged. He dared not move. The raven turned my way, stared at me then flew away, its claws digging into my chest. Since I was on my back, I could see him circling high in the sky, probably to see if the threat to me had ended. Blackbird stared into the sky as if in a trance.

With the pressure off my stomach, my voice came out more like a girl’s than a boy’s. I answered, “My Iroquois mother, by the name of Raven Feathers, gave the raven feathers to me. She said they would protect me. It looks like it worked.”

His startled facial expression told me that he knew of her. He stood up, then helped me up, but immediately he backed away two steps from me. He stared at me, questions on his lips.

“You know woman?”

“Me Black Kettle, Raven Feathers’s adopted son.”

It looked as if he had forgotten that he was holding my raven feather. He handed it back to me quickly, as if it were burning his fingers and wanted it out of his hand before it melted his flesh.

He pointed to himself. “I know of spirit woman. Many know of old Raven Feathers. None go near her village. She have great healing and spirit powers. Good medicine-woman. Chases evil spirits away. Good spirits protect. You son? How?”

“Her son was killed in battle. I was adopted to take the place of her son.”

“You go in gauntlet? You brave. Have powers? She give you raven power?” He pointed to my raven feathers in my topknot. Feathers have great power from old woman, Raven Feathers.”

“I know raven more power than crow. You raven feathers more power my crow feathers. No want evil spirits. I no hurt Raven Feathers’ son. Me,” he pointed at himself, “I Blackbird, son of Huron medicine man, Crow Caller, but no spirit powers. Woman in village have some spirit powers, no like Raven Feathers. You mother more power, Back Kettle. I no hurt you. No want evil spirits come at me. Father be great medicine-man in my village far to north. He tell me stories of great Raven Feathers.”

He pointed to himself and said proudly, “Me Huron name Blackbird. Me enemy of all. . .most all Iroquois. Not enemy Raven Feathers. Not enemy Black Kettle. I die if I kill you. I hurt if I hurt you. I good if I good to you. Good I see you raven feathers. No want evil spirits harm me, family. I hear of this woman much. She feared by many, even other Iroquois tribes: Mohican, Algonquin, Delaware, and Ottawa all know of her. None will attack her village because they believe her evil spirits will kill them, then come to the attackers village with bad intentions.”

“She is my Iroquois mother. I was captured many moons ago.”

“She hurt you? You see evil spirits?”

“She good to me. She help me escape. I go home. Many in tribe want to hurt me, want to kill me. You Huron. Not my enemy.” “Good. Me go south through Iroquois land. Danger. Go slow, much care. See relatives in Delaware nation. They live much by river called Delaware. I now go north. Go home beyond great lakes.”

          Blackbird looked toward the west, where I had come from. “You run far? You followed?” he asked.

          “Have run far. Followed by some that wish to hurt me. One great warrior; Bloody Hands, and son follow me. Capture, then kill me. No bring me back to village where Raven Feathers’s power strongest.”

          “Bloody Hands!” he growled. He rubbed his hand together as if spreading blood all over them. “Bloody Hands kill many Hurons. He follow you? I find him, kill him, take son for slave. I like. You like?” he asked excitedly.

A smile exploded across my dry lips. Such happiness was unexpected. Killing to make me happy? Kill or be killed? Yes! Kill!

“I kill Bloody Hands. Take scalp back to tribe. Me proud man. Songs, stories tell about my kill great warrior of Seneca.”

“Me your prisoner now?” he asked me.

I turned my head side to side, indicating, “No.”

“Black Kettle. No my prisoner. No kill. You go now. Be fast.”

          The relief I felt was like a cool swim on a sweltering day. His wishes to kill Bloody Hands and would be my savior if he did it.

          Blackbird added, “No go south. Trick ‘em. Go east. Go fast. I stop them for you. Go.” He pointed eastward, the way I wanted to go already.”

          “You were really lucky,” Lily whispered.

          “What do you mean, lucky. I terrified Blackbird. He was so scared of me that his nose was running and he was sweating blood,” I stated with a straight face.

          “Yea. Right!” Slone exclaimed in disbelief and exaggerated frown.

          “Yea. I know. I was just bull-mule-ing  the both of you.”

          Lily inquired, “Do you think we can use the word ‘mule’ to mean a person’s butt with mom and dad?”

          “No, I don’t think so. You’ll get yourselves and me into trouble, but if you want to explain it to them, do it.”

          “After talking to Blackbird and hearing what he wanted to do for me, I was so excited that I ran through the meadow and into the forest, dodging trees, and low branches. My energy increased, so I ran, and ran, and ran along the Canisteo River. The remainder of that day I ran, jogged, walked until dusk when I came to where the Canisteo River connected to the Chemung River. I stopped, and, though exhausted I set a snare to trap a rabbit for my morning meal. When the snare was set, with a wild carrot, I fell to the ground completely drained. No building a fire. A cold camp and gorging myself with raccoon meat. I slept on a

bed of pine needles, pine tree boughs and weeds. I fell asleep smelling the earth mixed with the fragrance of balsa pine boughs.

                                       CHAPTER 18

          “I rose from sleep as at sunrise and peeked at it as it bloomed above the horizon, then seemed to stand still as if it had comfortably settled itself, then it rose slowly just as I was rising to get the morning started.

           After I emptied my bladder I remembered the noose-snare I had set the night before. As I searched to the snare, the awful thought that I’d have to eat pine cone seeds, plants, flowers, berries, and nuts, if I could find any of them, tortured my mind because the quantity of them I’d find in a brief time would not be filling. I drank plenty of water and most of what I ate was juicy, so I was seldom thirsty. If I had to eat the white, inner bark, that would help with the hunger, temporarily delaying the hunger-pains but I was hoping for more. I walked, looked around, stopped, and searched the area. I had set the snare at night, so I didn’t have a clear view of the surrounding area where I had set it. I had set it in the dark, so I had to do it by touch and feel, so I didn’t even know if it would work. Then I saw movement in the grass. I had snared something. This is the first time that I was uncertain of what my next meal would be but this morning’s mean would be roasted rabbit.

          I heard a squealing sound. The familiar sound of a snared rabbit caught my attention. Raven Feathers and Gray Cloud taught me much about snares. I was simple and quite useful. Raven Feathers taught me many things during my months in the village because I was often shunned, an outcast who was lucky enough to avoid torture, then death, due to Raven Feathers’ adopting me. I had thought that being successful in the gauntlet run that I’d be treated better. That’s a wrong conclusion I made from the stories I’d heard about white men who were capture and adopted.

           I needed to learn how to trap food. She and Gray Cloud had taught me well. There was usually a back and forth argument about food supplied to Raven Feathers. The people of the village supplied food and firewood for Raven Feathers. The arguments were about my food. The village did not owe me food as it did for Raven Feathers. I had already taken the job of collecting firewood for us. Now I also trapped animals for meat, while Raven Feather collected edible food from the forest and garden. We had plenty of food when we worked together, sharing. It was a rare treat when I snared pheasant and grouse as well as rabbits. Turkeys were so strong that they broke my snares no matter how strong I thought I was making them. They had to be trapped a unique way. I asked Gray Cloud. He said, “No trap. Turkey too strong. Break snare. Arrow. Hunt. Kill with arrow.”

          Gray Cloud and I hunted with our bow and arrows, but he taught me how to set snares, also. I had gotten much better with the bow and arrows. The meat he and I didn’t eat on our hunting trips was shared with the old people in the village. Soon I was providing the meat for our meals and the wood for our fires, so Raven Feathers released the village from its food and firewood obligations. But Raven Feathers got the last word to the food providers when she stated, “Do you also wish to relieve me of my healing duties?”

          “Did you hunt alone, sometimes?” Slone wanted to know.

          “I hunted alone many times, but not always successfully,” I responded.

          Lily interjected, “So why didn’t you run away, if you were alone?”

          “I thought the same thing and considered it, but I was alert enough to finally realize that I was being watched from a distance, so escaping, in that kind of situation would have failed. I never saw who was following me, but I was certain that Swift Arrow would never get such a responsible assignment.

“Unfortunately, Swift Arrow and his father, Bloody Hands, poisoned most opinions of me with most of the villagers. I was thought to be a bad influence on Raven Feathers even though those opinions were ridiculous. The old ways were the golden standard for most of the villagers. The children were the exception. They wanted to play, and anyone who would play, and treated them well, was accepted. The elders let it slide when they saw the smiles and laughter coming from the children. Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow glared at me with obvious dislike.

          The snare had a rabbit caught in it. I quickly broke its neck to end its fright and pain. Killing, even animals, makes me sad. I do it at the farm and in the forest to survive. It had to be done. I wondered why God didn’t make a world that was so much better. With all that power, what he created was a shrine to his incompetence. Wow! What was I thinking? I’d never dare to say that around my mom and dad. Snapping out of such thoughts, I did as Raven Feather did with animal food. She first thanked the animal for providing food and asked to be forgiven for killing it. I liked that kind of thankfulness. It seemed more kind than boldly and coldly slaughtering animals for their flesh, as white men do.

          As I said, I was so hungry that I built a fire right there by the snare. First though, I did the rabbit preparations with the fur and the inner organs. I saved the heart, liver, and kidneys. I’d cook them, too, but placed them into my bag for eating later in the day. I pounded two thin branches on each side of the fire. into the ground, each with a notch at the top. Then I skewered the remainder of the rabbit with another thin branch, then placed that branch into the notches of the other two branches. I would have liked to slowly roast the meat but I couldn’t waste time, so I added wood to the fire so the meat cooked faster. Some of the meat burned but I didn’t care. There was little smoke from the fast burning fire, so I wasn’t worried about it being a signal of where I was to my pursuers, if I still had pursuers. I took my first bite and nearly cried from happiness. But I couldn’t stop eating even thought I knew I had to save some, so when I looked down at my hands, they only held a skeleton. I had only choked a couple times from swallowing before the meat was chewed well enough, plus, not drinking plenty of water with the meat. I thanked the rabbit’s spirit once again. I still had the three, cooked internal organs to eat later.

I patted my stomach and planned to walk briskly to lighten the stuffed feeling I had after my hardy meal. I rose to put out the fire, having to use water to do it since I didn’t make a double pit fire. Water had become plentiful now that most of the snow and ice had melted. I set my water bag next to my feet, then stretched the stiffness out of my neck and shoulders. It felt good and I felt more hopeful for my success. I’d seen no sign of my pursuers and had the feeling, a strong feeling, that they no longer followed me. I wondered if Blackbird had been successful at killing Bloody Hands and taking Swift Arrow as a slave, perhaps even to be adopted as a Huron. His unearned superior feelings and undisciplined behaviors would make it so that he could not survive with them. I felt pity but not guilty, though an image of him being tortured brought a sight that repulsed me.

“Swift Arrow would run and run and run whenever he had a chance. Add that to his arrogant attitude, false pride and rebelliousness and he would get himself killed. My day dream ended. I picked up the water bag and turned to get my canvas bag when I was hit in the nose and forehead with what I found out later was the scratched, etched, gouged, and dirty stock of an older Kentucky flint lock, muzzle loading, thirty inch, smooth bore, single shot rifle that used a thirty-six or thirty-eight caliber lead ball. A ‘mountain man’s rifle.

 I grabbed my bleeding nose and dropped the water bag. My eyes water profusely and whatever I could see was blurred. When I could see better, I saw that I was looking down the barrel of such a high caliber rifle that I could have stuck my thumb into the barrel. The rifle was a fifty-four or a fifty-six caliber lead ball. It would drop any animal easily, including the hard to kill bison and bear.

          Instinctively I grabbed for my knife, then felt pain in my temple area as I saw blackness and was knocked out even before I collapsed to the ground. When I woke, I found what it’s like to be smashed in the temple area with the stock of a rifle. It could have been a killing blow to that weakest area of the skull. Surprisingly, my nose wasn’t bleeding, but my forehead was, just where the bridge of the nose meets the forehead. There was dried blood was all over the bottom half of my face and my hands. My temple area was badly swollen, probably the cause of my blinding headache. The headache made me so light sensitive that I had to cover my eyes with both hands. I felt for my weapons, but they were gone.

I sat there dazed, then was roughly pulled to a red oak tree, my back being pushed against it and my hands tied behind the tree with a strong leather cord.

                                      *******

BAXTER: “Looksee here, Ben,” chortled Baxter to his older brother Ben. “Looks like we got us a white trash Injun. Nice tan and top knot, but there be no hiding he white trash pretend to be Injun. Clothes look real Injun like.”

          BEN: “Well, Bax, I sees nice hair. It gots two crow feathers. Make a braggin’ scalp, dat be fer certain. Can I have it, Bax? You gots plenty scalps. OK?”

          BAXTER: “You shit for brains! We doesn’t need no more. An’ dat be no crow feathers. They be from raven.” He pulled one out of the top knot and smelled it. Stinks already. Him too, an’ dat be sayin’ somethin’ ‘cause I know we stinks, too. He worse. No matter. We needs to have fun. Travel, travel, all we be doin’ fer more’n a month. Maybe we takes boy’s hair. If we does that, you keeps it. I wanna man scalp, not a boy scalp. Means more when takin’ it from Injun man. You gets laughed at with boy scalp.”

          BEN: “OK Bax. Dat good in my mind, but nobody knows it be a white boy scalp, if you don’ tells ‘em. Wha kine a fun you thinkin’ ‘bout?”

BAXTER: “I won’ tell if ya does-na rile me. Now be quiet. Let me think. Maybe skin ’im slow with knife or makes a fire at ‘is feet. We watch ‘im hops, an’ dance, an’squirms an’ screams. Whatcha thinks ‘bout that?”

BEN: “Ya remember dat I lost me finger neck string months ago. I Needs one now, so we cuts off fingers, an’ toes? I likes ta ‘ave ‘nother finger necklass. How ‘bout you?”

BAXTER: “So whada I git? Some stinkin’ toes round me neck? Scalp smell bad ‘nough. ‘member the Injun lady we cut her tongue out? We cook it and eat it as she watch. Now that be real fun, little brother.”

          BEN: “An it be so good. You want ‘nother tongue? We can do it easy. But you ‘member we capture a hurt warrior in Rockies Mountain? ‘member dat? An’ we makes pine slivers like needles. Slivers full of sap that burns slow an’ long, so we sticks ‘em half way in him and fire the outside part. Sticks still burn all way to end dat below skin an’ inside ‘im. Gawd damn! Dat be fun. How many we stick in ‘im? Yes, dat be fun. It last longer than fire at feet.

          BAXTER: “Many needle sticks gets cut. An I ‘member dat Injun squaw we cut nose offa. Gawd she be ugly then. No ‘member if she be Crow or Blackfeet.”

BEN: “I ‘member her fine. We takes her as she walk in the night. Dat no nose be scary. Two holes in middle of face. You ‘member I throws-up?”

          BAXTER: “Yeah. I ‘member you makes fool of yerself. But you right, she look to be shot two times, side by side holes, where nose was. It be ugly aw-right.”

          BEN: “Hey BAX. ‘member the jug of ‘blackstrap’ we trade fer? Make boy more fun if we haves some now, right?”

BAXTER: “Well little brother, ya does sometime thinks of a clever idea. I be mighty thirsty, too. You?”

          BEN: “I be mighty thirsty, like you is.”

BAXTER: “Git jug from bag Ben. We gots some drinkin’ ta do.”

 Ben went to their deerskin bag for the jug of blackstrap. Baxter yelled, “Hey! White Injun. You speaks ‘merican?”

I did not reply. Maybe they would think I no longer could speak English and would say something helpful for me. Ben returned with the cork out of the jug, took a gulp and handed it to Bax.

BEN: “I be curious, Bax. Why you thinks he ‘ave two knives an’ two ax? Hell, he not be a man yet. Can’ be warrior. No sir. Be white slave.”

All this time that they were babbling about ways to torture and scare me, I was busy rubbing the wide leather cord against the rough bark of the Red Oak tree where they had my hands tied behind it. I heard sounds from the limbs above me. I looked up and smiled. A raven. For me, a good omen. I worked at shredding the leather cord until the raven came down the back of the tree and started biting it. It broke quickly, but I stood silently as if tied securely. I could hear the raven’s wings flapping as it flew away. I looked at the two bastards enjoying their laughs at the torturing they had done. I wondered just how do brutish, immoral, creatures like them are made.

BAXTER: “How’m I ta know? Maybe he in fight, an’ steal weapons. Maybe he a thief. Fergit dat. Maybe he runs away. Maybe he a moron who lose things easy. He be but a young chil.’ Teenage. Dat mean stupid. Just pups runnin’ for momma’s milk.

BEN: “You say, when we stop, you goin’ tell me wha’ we doin’ goin’ t’ward settlements. Can’t steal beaver furs anymore. You tell me as we drink.”

          BAXTER: “Gawd dammit, Ben. You asks too many questions. Don’t rile me. I tells ya later. Let’s drink.”

Once again, I felt hopeful, and optimistic, two pillars that were surrounded by my cloak of rage. I knew then that I had changed much during my stay with Raven Feathers. I had become brutish myself. Violence was not as dreaded, Christian morality was trivial. Common sense, concern and caring for others did an excellent job. I thought of the ten commandments for Christians. Just ten? Seems like an overly concise list. I frowned and asked myself, “Where are these thoughts coming from? At home I just accept what mom and dad believe. Much simpler, especially if no questions are asked or answered. I knew it would cause trouble at home. Life was not as precious as it once was, and self-defense had a much greater and less rigid meaning, especially when the need to kill arises. The wilderness was hostile and to stay alive one had to change his thoughts. Religion needs civilization to work best. I was far from civilization, and my own questions about religion disturbed me.

 Be wolf, I thought. Wolf and raven working with me. Even so, a darkness flowed over my thoughts like the thick molasses that combined with rum in the jug to make the blackstrap alcohol they were drinking. I had only tasted that once and liked the molasses taste. I took a sip from my dad’s cup, but never did it again.

The two mountain men morons couldn’t stop drinking until the jug’s contents were gone. Exactly as I had hoped for. My dad’s words for their drunkenness was that they were ‘stinking drunk.” They certainly stunk strongly. I imagined that I did, too, being unable to take the time to bathe. I had learned that a clean body is a healthier body from Raven Feathers. I stood silently until the sun was getting a pleasant view of the top of my head. They were unconscious now, so I brought my hands in front of me, untied my wrists and dropped the leather cord. My back was sore, but it wasn’t going to stop my journey. I was getting close to safety and civilized white settlers. I can’t stop or be stopped. I must move onward. My mind painted an image of Raven Feathers deeply wrinkled but smiling face.

So, that’s what ‘stinking drunk’ looks like, I thought. I was glad the Indians didn’t have any of that strong drink. It would be ‘white man’s poison’ to them, and it would cause extreme behavioral trouble. A few years after my escape, the white man’s ‘fire water’ contributed to decades of violence between whites and Indians.

I walked up to the mountain men’s gear. I took all their gun powder supplies, even their powder horns. I emptied the horns by throwing their powder supply into the wind where the powder scattered so thinly over the camp area that the grains were invisible. Lead balls were distributed as I did the powder. I removed the flints from the rifles and the extra flints from their supply bag and threw them strongly in all directions. I went mad with destruction and a quality of rage that I never hoped to feel again, an undisciplined need to kill. My face was hot with ferocious vengefulness, as tears ran down my cheeks. With crazed actions, I slammed the rifle stocks against a tree and broke them. I threw them into tall bushes. They were so drunk that they barely moved when I took off their boots and sliced them, so they were unfit to wear. On their feet they both wore decaying, holey socks containing a sickening stench that nearly caused me to vomit. The socks fell apart as I pulled them off their feet. The disgusting odor from the socks was overpowering. I pinched my nose, walked away from them, and washed the stink off my hands. An overflowing outhouse would smell better than their feet and socks. They now had soiled bare feet. I would tend to them shortly. I found a good supply of meat jerky in each of their deerskin bags. Now I had food and wouldn’t have to delay my journey. What I didn’t need, I threw as far away as the strength of my arm allowed me to do. I returned to their sleeping forms to take their flintlock hand guns. I tied a long leather cord around the handles, draped the leather cord around my neck so the hand guns lay swinging at my chest. I’d figure out something better later. Since I didn’t save any powder or balls, there would only be one shot from each hand gun.

I was ready to continue my journey. First, I walked to their feet, stood over them and paused for thought. My decision was not easy. I did it quickly to get it over with. I used my knife to deeply slash the soles of their feet. They were so drunk that it took a few second for them to wake up, feel the pain and grab their feet. I heard screams and vile curses as I walked away. In effect, I had just killed them. Strange that I didn’t feel sinful or a murderer, or evil. I wanted them to suffer as they must have made so many others suffer. They didn’t deserve quick deaths or mercy.

I set off following the Chemung River until it connected with the Susquehanna River. Along the way I wondered how mom and dad would react to me having killed men. What would our preacher think? And Franny. How would she view me from now on?

“Jeez, Da. You didn’t tell us all of that part of the story last time,” Lily whispered with a startled voice and shocked expression.

Slone paused for thought, then, “You really did that, Da. Is that part one of your exaggerations to make the story more exciting?”

“I was wrong to tell you that part. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking properly.”

Lily whispered, “Did those two guys die?”

“They must have,” added Slone.

“Probably,” I whispered, knowing I was wrong to have done that, so I added, “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was feeling crazy, hateful, and filled with hate.”

                             CHAPTER 19

I stepped off the west bank of the Chemung River and swam to the east bank. I walked along the east bank where I could not be seen from the west bank due to the dense forests which nearly went all the way to the river’s edge. I knew that I would feel safer if I crossed the river and walked into the forest a few feet where I could still hear and see portions of the river.  I was alert and still saw no sign of pursuit which made me quite sure that I was safe. I told myself to stop saying that I was safe because I wasn’t. It’d already sidestepped a couple of timber rattlers and thought, at one point, that I heard a bear roar. A racoon had been menacing and damn it! I was not safe. Move! I yelled at myself internally, the word being like a marble that crashed into and circled around my skull.

 Sometimes when I came to a clearing, I would look up to the sky. There was almost always a raven above me. It made me think of the Indian spirit world compared to the Christian spirit world. They were different. Both weird, confusing, illogical, and demanding. They were unsolvable, unknowable. I can’t imagine not knowing a person that I’m supposed to like as a friend or mentor because he’s unknowable. Illogical mazes with vast chinks in their armor that left so much doubt and yet, believed by most people. It was one God or another. Take your pick, but when you do, you must realize that it was people who created religion and a God they so much needed to believe in.

 Before I escaped, I wanted to find the logic in the Indian spirit world, and to my surprise I saw signs, especially the Seneca’s and Raven Feathers’s spirit world of animals, plus entities referred to as good and bad spirits. Then I decided that my attention needed to be on reality, not imagination. Whether any of it is true, partially true, or false, I did not have time for a philosopher’s introspection. I had a lifetime ahead of me to think about it after I escaped and am safely home. My last thought on the subject was that a human baby does not start out choosing a religion. There’s no learning, no testing, no investigating, no search for truth. Truth is whatever someone teaches you, usually your mom and dad. We are all indoctrinated into believing those who first had a chance to indoctrinate us, mom, and dad. No religion can claim to be the true one. No religion can claim that their god is the true god. Truth doesn’t matter now because indoctrination is supremely important and rarely separated from. I was now a skeptic and would feel the pain of it when I was honest about it at home. These ideas, of course, could not be told to my grandkids. Honesty is the enemy in any religion. Plus, I faced the wrath of Nana and Mara. Thoughts as these were normally excluded from any of my stories. I stumbled and broke out of my serious daydreaming. I’d return to those questions after this ordeal.

Right now, I told myself, one step at a time. Keep moving. It must be known by now that I’m following the river routes. If I hadn’t been a good runner and a nearly untiring walker, I’d have been caught by now. Raven Feathers’s words were something like, “You go fast. No stop too much. Keep going. Shame followers who can’t catch white boy. You be raven. Ride wolf home, my son.” I hadn’t thought about what she said until now. It shocked me that I had seen a raven riding on the back of a wolf. A good omen? Was it a religion? Did I want to believe? Was I falling into the same trap that I condemned? Indoctrination?

I had no idea how long the Chemung River was. I had hoped that I’d reach the end in two days, but I was traveling more slowly than usual. My feet ached but I was safe enough to go to the edge of the river and dangle my feet into the cool water. It felt good but was a mistake. My swollen feet made my moccasins feel as if they had shrunk.

          I knew now that I had to take great care on this part of my journey because Raven Feathers and white captives had warned me of this stretch of the Chemung River which was inhabited by British and French army deserters, as well as all sorts of outlaws and rogues evading their trial and jail. Then there must be those who had committed horrendous crimes and escaped. Certain parts of the river had become a criminal sanctuary, a ‘no man’s land,’ lying between the southern Iroquois Confederacy and the northern Delaware Indian nation.

          Along this Big Horn River, as the Iroquois called it, there lay what could be life threatening, brutal criminals that were the most wicked of humanity, the very worst of the white men who were evading the law. I had to remember that I was a teenage Iroquois Seneca Indian physically, but mentally I was mostly white with an Iroquois mask and costume. I would be seen immediately by white people as a blood-thirsty savage, a killer of all white men.

          I felt my hair with its topknot and raven feathers. I was allowed to wear my hair like this in the village because I could not be a warrior of the tribe. Upon becoming a full-fledged warrior, the man would shave his head mostly bald, not only to look more fierce when his face was painted, and so that an enemy could not grab their hair in combat. All warriors were wise to the fact that, ‘where the head goes, the body follows.’ My top knot made me easily recognizable, easily seen.

          Looking like a Seneca Indian, as I did now, would get me killed quickly. I needed white man’s clothes. I made my way stealthily up the river for a few miles until I heard voices, then smelled smoke. White people were near, I hoped. I crept forward and through the forest’s edge I saw a slight clearing near the water’s edge. There, a large wiki-up was built. I saw a man who looked so dirty that, if not for his beard and whiskers, he could have been mistaken for a wild beast of the forest.

          He was short, fat, and wielded his Bowie knife skillfully as he chopped a piece of firewood into kindling. These renegades, not wanting to attract attention, used knives as their main tool for settling arguments. They had also learned how to use a bow and arrow and tomahawk because it was a quiet way to hunt, or fight. Gun shots were rare since they would give a clue to their exact location, not that any sensible officer would enter without an army.

          I stared at what was walking out the front of the wiki-up. It was a tall, skinny, white boy, his long, dirty hair fell over his eyes, A shirt that was so filthy that I couldn’t guess the original color. His coveralls had straps going over his shoulders. His rotted leather boots were too big for him, and he wore no socks. His neck was unusually long, and he had a scraggly mustache and a thin beard. The coveralls hung on him like a blanket on a broom stick.”

          I paused here.

                                      *******

Slone: “What the heck’s a weak -knee-cup?”

Lily: “Yeah, explain,” added Lily, supporting Slone’s question.

Me: “A wiki-up, not wiki-cup, spelled w-i-k-i u-p. It’s a lazy man’s shelter. It’s not usually built to be permanent but is used until a better place can be built. Some Indians farther west build them elaborately large, sturdy, and comfortable, and they do use them as permanent homes. That’s why I supposed that these people that I was talking about were recent arrivals. They built a fast and easy temporary shelter. Anyway, their wiki-up was a rough shelter made of bendable, skinny saplings so the wiki-up can have a domed shape. On the top and side there’s usually brushwood, woven grass mats and large pieces of bark for crude rainproof roof.

Lily: “So they are round, with a dome top, but how high and how wide are they?”

Me: “That’s entirely up to the builder and the purpose for him building it. Like I said, they are usually used by western Indians who usually move a lot, perhaps looking for better land for planting, a source of water, and more plentiful game to hunt.”

Slone: “Game, huh? What kind of games do they play?”

Me: Silly boy. Do you know what ‘game’ is? Game is a word that can mean any animal who can provide meat to eat, like deer, rabbit, turkeys.

Lily: “How could they make woven mats? That would take a lot of time, wouldn’t it?”

Me: In places like I’m talking about some people have built better shelters and a lot of times the mats they used for their wiki-up aren’t needed, so they are given or traded or sold to newcomers who are building their wiki-up. If mats aren’t available, then they find something else to use. Many times, people know ahead of time that they must escape to that area, and they bring supplies with them that make it easier and faster to build their wiki-up. It may be easier to think of a wiki-up as a round tent enclosed with whatever they brought with them or whatever other residents supplied them with whatever the surrounding environment gave them.”

Slone: “I’d rather build a tepee. Good place to pee, huh?”

Lily: “Always a silly joke, huh Slone? Explain tepee? “

Me: “It’s alright to be silly at the proper times,” I said. “It doesn’t bother me when I’m telling my story. Slone’s enjoying himself without overly interrupting me. I like his humor, even though it’s silly, but it’s rarely distracting. In fact, some kinds of humor depend on the silliness to make it funny. So, a tepee is a shelter that far western plains Indians use. They move around a lot. A tepee is easy to put up and take down. It’s made of long poles forming a circle on the ground, but all the poles rise to meet each other at the top. The animal hides are used to insulate and waterproof the living area where a fire could be built in the middle of the circular area inside the tepee.” I used my hands and fingers to show them approximately what the structure looked like. So, should I continue?”

 There were two excited ‘yeses.’

                                                *******

          “Hey, Pa. I’m hungry, the skinny boy said. Then, a couple seconds later, he interjected, “How long before the rabbits can be e’t?”

          “Fire’s nearly out, son. Too much smoke. Wet wood I would guess. Git dry wood and git it goin’ again.”

“Those big flames gonna burn the meat, Pa.”

“You be a fool sometimes, son. When you gonna remember the meat cooks best over low flames, even better over red-hot embers. So, I gotta have a big fire to burn down until there’s those red-hot embers to cook with. Won’t be eatin’ for a while yet.

“Takes too long, Pa.”

“Dammit! Git the fire going like I say, or I’ll git the switch and

bloody yur back with it. When the fire gits goin’ real good, you go to the woods and get edible plants. Satisfy your hunger with berries, roots, tubers, nuts, and such. It’ll satisfy yur constant hunger till the rabbit is done. If ya could aim a damn gun and go hunting, we could have more meat. Hell, eat rabbit turds if you so damn hungry. Now go away.”

          The skinny teenage boy got the fire going nicely for his father, but he moved slowly and looked sick. He looked like a pole with a big knot on top, two branches for arms and two more for legs. Though he looked half-starved, he didn’t act sick and seemed to have energy. Anyway, done with the fire, he walked in my direction. I had seen a blueberry bush a minute ago and had some of the tasty blue balls. I figured that he was sure to come to the blue berry bush for easy food. I stealthily made it the few yards to the bush and hid on the opposite side of it, on my knees. I drew my knife. The bush started shaking when he picked with two hands. I looked through a clear spot at ground level and saw worn boots, the start of holes and the seams coming apart. The heels on both boots were missing. I couldn’t use his boots. His pants may come close to fitting if I cut them shorter. I could use leather cordage for a belt. His linsey-woolsey shirt could be adjusted so I looked as dirty, sloppy and the tears in it were already bad enough. I’d have to cut off my top-knot hair using my knife and a reflecting pool of water as a guide. Then I wouldn’t have Indian hair to frighten anyone, but I’d be bald.

          I could see through the spaces in between several bush stems as they met the ground. I could see his large feet, as he circled the bush. When he cleared one area of berries, he would sidestep to another area. As he did this, he came closer to me. I got up on one knee, waiting for the right moment. I did not want to kill the young boy, simply to steal his clothes. At the right moment I stood and hit him on the side of his upper head not wanting to strike the softer temple area. His skinny body dropped to the ground in what looked like a bundle of rags held together by bird bones. That reminded me of what my mom used to say to me when I didn’t eat enough, or she thought I was too thin. She’d say, “Eat. Put some meat on your bones or when you sneeze, you’ll break your back.” Dad and I would sneak peeks at each other and grin.

          I looked at his rags and bones wishing he were Swift Arrow. Good thing he wasn’t, or I may have crushed his skull by striking with much more force in the temple. When he woke all the skinny kid would see was his dirty underwear and boots, but then he’d feel the pulsing, tumescent bulge in his temple area, plus an awful headache. Then, with a disorienting curiosity he’d wonder how he had become nearly naked, only wearing his underwear and boots.

          I removed his cloths quickly, everything but his boots and underpants. His underpants looked as if he would wear them until they rotted off his body. Much too disgusting for me to think about. I’d have to continue wearing my moccasins and no underpants, just like I did in the Indian village where in late spring, summer, and early fall the men and boys only covered their private areas in front and in back with a piece of animal hide tied around their waists. It’s called a loincloth or a breechcloth. I would make my moccasins look dirtier with mud, grass stains and berry stains. They were my second pair and nearly worn out. I must wear the pair that I stole from Star Watcher. They would last until I arrived home.

          A mile away, by the river’s edge I found a calm pool where I used my reflection to cut my hair, becoming a bald boy. Then I began changing into my

 shabby, white boy clothes.

          How to hide my Indian clothes was not a problem. I couldn’t dig with my knife or tomahawk without ruining the sharpness, so, I thought, if I can’t go down in the dirt, then I’ll go up in a tree. The simple answer was for me to climb to a tree top and leave my clothes securely tied there. I looked up and spotted a tree whose top couldn’t be seen due to shorter trees blocking the view. I easily climbed the tree, like you would do, Slone. I had a stroke of luck as I climbed the tree. I had placed my hand in the crotch of a branch for support and touched a bird’s nest, the second one. Climbing level to it, it had three eggs in it. I ate all three, including the soft shells. I knew that if I found food, I’d have to eat it without questioning myself about it. I continued climbing until I was close to the top and couldn’t see the ground through the growth of the other trees. I’d already tied the cloths together. I tied leather cords around a branch and through the loop of the tied cloths, tied tight knots and descended the tree.

          As soon as my feet touched the ground, I did not delay my traveling. I quickly moved away from that area quietly staying in the dense trees. Along the way I heard voices, smelled smoke and sometimes I smelled meat cooking. I drooled as I got away from those smells. I have to spit frequently for a brief time to rid my mouth of the saliva. Dusk approached and I was sweaty, tired, and anxious about being captured by returning meat hunters, who stayed out all day and returned at night. I decided to stay put, waiting for darkness of night to do my traveling, until I reached the west branch of the River of Oysters (the Susquehanna River).

          Any questions?”

                                                *******

Lily: “You got naked and put on those filthy clothes? That’s disgusting.”

Me: “Yes it was. They gave me a creepy feeling, like digging up a dead man and stealing his dirt covered clothes.”

Slone: “The loincloth should be renamed. Call it a ‘groin cloth.’ That’s more exact, but wouldn’t they be showing their privates when they bent over, or in a strong wind, or something.”

Me: “Yes, but from my experience it didn’t matter. It was no big deal to them. They thought about their nakedness much differently that white people do. Their religion had not made nakedness sinful.”

Lily: “Geez. What did the girl and woman wear?”

Slone laughed at Lily and gently poked her in the ribs trying to embarrass her. It worked. Her face flushed red.

Lily: “Stop that,” she said as she stared at Slone.

Me: “Their bodies were well covered. Almost the opposite of the boys and men.

Slone: “Oh, wow, Da. Did you wear a groin cloth, too?”

The cabin door opened a crack allowing the kids and I to see the scowling faces of Mara and Nana.

“OK. No more about nakedness after I answer Slone’s question.”

“The door opened. The women were about to rush out, but I held up my hand, saying, “It’s a harmless answer. You’ll see. Don’t you two have something to do except spy on us.

Nana: “You need spying on. You don’t know when to stop or skip certain areas of the story. And you’re a bad influence on those kids.”

“I told dad and dad told you some parts that I always leave out. Must be you’ve forgotten those parts. Anyway, I wouldn’t have told them even without your nagging. But it’s stretching religion quite then when words like ‘shit’ can set you on fire.

 The door closed quietly, and I felt guilty. I wished that I hadn’t said that. “I’m sorry!” I yelled at the door. All was quiet behind the cabin door. Lily and Slone looked wide-eyed and open gapping mouth, surprised that I had said ‘shit.’

                                                *******

Me: “Slone. The answer to your question is, No. I didn’t have to wear a loincloth. I wore leather pants and shirt because the warriors, especially Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow wanted me to be distinctive, to be easily spotted, even in a crowd of boys or men. So, they were almost naked while I was fully covered. Those clothes got hot, too, until I got used to the heat and he sweat dripping down my legs. Oh, and that’s when I learned about bathing in the lake. The kids bathed for fun; the adults bathed mostly to keep clean with less smell.”

Slone: “Will you tell us any of the parts you always leave out?

Me: “No and no more questions about that, Lily?

Lily: “Why did you eat those eggs. You could have left them for the momma bird. I thought it was cruel, Da.”

Me: “If it weren’t a life or death situation for me, I wouldn’t have done it, but I was hungry, so when food became available, I had to eat it. Yes, I regret it, but it was necessary. Do you remember what meat we ate at yesterday’s supper?”

Lily looked down at the porch planks, face sad. “We ate parts of the chicken that dad killed and roasted.”

Me: “Did you run outdoors and tell you dad that he was cruel for killing the chicken? Did you eat any of the chicken?”

Lily: Looking even more sad, she said, “I understand now.”

Slone: “That was smart not to bury or hide your Indian clothes on the ground. Taking them up the tree, where they can’t be seen was clever.”

Me: “Thanks.”

Lily: “How did you cut your hair? I mean what did it look like when you were done cutting off you top hair?”

Me. “I looked as if someone had scalped me without taking any skin with the hair. Just plain bald. When I looked at my refection; I didn’t recognize myself. It looked awful and was exactly right because I was trying to look awful. Being bald made me look five years older, too.

Slone: “Did you cut yourself when you cut the top hair off?”

Me: “Oh, yeah. I accidentally cut my ear, chin, and neck. Nothing serious, though. Nana would have loved my wild man, handsome appearance.” I paused to listen. There was no knock on the door. The door didn’t open, so the two women weren’t spying on me anymore. “Ok. Enough questions. Let me finish.”

                                                *******

          I had been walking for a while but hadn’t heard any source of noise in a long time that I could relate to being human. I relaxed a brief time, hidden with mud on my face and hands to prevent the moon’s reflection. My moccasins were dirty and stained. My knife was shiny steel, covered in its sheath. But there was a shiny metal cap at end of the handle that could reflect moonlight. Plastered with mud, it didn’t shine at all.

I was growing more relaxed even though it wasn’t dark yet. My mind was more at ease, but it didn’t last long. That was my constant source of exhaustion. When I would relax, something unexpected, usually dangerous, happened. It was no different now. I lay down for concealment. In this prone position I could see through the lower trunks of trees with no low branches. I heard more soft footsteps as if someone were using a stealthy approach. How could anybody find me now. Had I left distinctive tracks? A broken limb or twigs? Maybe a crushed plant? Was I too noisy? I shook my head in confusion and frustration. It was time to be as wise as a raven and have the strength and courage of the wolf. I was thinking as Raven Feathers would think, as if my head were a canyon, I imagined that I heard her voice as it bounced and echoed off my inner skull walls. I regained my composure then, and had to ask myself, “Was I near a place of human habitation? I was a while ago. But I hadn’t heard nor smelled anything that hinted at people being around this area. That thought dissolved as the soft footsteps came out into the open, about twenty feet away. I nearly choked on my own saliva when I got a clear image of what it was.

          Was this a dream? I pinched myself, really, I did. I felt the pain and thought, No, not a dream. Well, I’ll be damned, I thought. It was a young female deer, not a fawn, nor fully grown. It was a young, white-tailed doe, a pleasant surprise, but what was it wearing? My mind flooded with a bubbling current of disbelief where I thought I heard the bubbles bursting. Pop, pop, pop. “What the hell is going on?” I blinked several times, shook my head to clear it as my brain screamed.

 I rubbed my eyes but got mud in one of them. In a moment, a flood of tears washed the mud away, so I refocused. I’ll be damned if the doe weren’t wearing the collar of a female’s tattered dress around its neck with the front part of the dress sliced down the middle so that each half of the dress could hang over each side of the doe, and where the middle of the back part of dress could hang over the Doe’s back bone. I realized that my mouth was wide open in mild shock. I stared, still questioning what I was seeing. The doe hesitantly came closer by a few yards, stopped, then stared at me. Did it smell me? See me? I didn’t know. I wasn’t aware that I was holding my breath, so I puckered my lips, as if to whistle, and slowly exhaled. Someone had made a lacy braid for a collar. A long rope was attached around the doe’s neck, the end of it being dragged as it walked. As I looked at the dragging rope, I was surprised, again, by the doe’s hooves. Its hooves were painted black, I guessed, to give the impression of shoes, especially since the doe was made to look like a girl with a dress and a girl in a dress needs shoes, right? That’s my guess about the black hooves. I had been so focused by the doe that I didn’t hear the little girl’s soft footsteps. I looked at her long, unwashed hair, mud streaked face, dirt-streaked arms and hands and felt sorrow. The doe was wearing a cleaner dress than she was. She whispered gently into its ear and both ears flipped back and forth. She picked up the dragging rope and casually walked back the way they had come. The doe follow a few steps behind her. The girl looked about ten years old. She sweet-talked it as if she were its mother and the doe was her baby. It was difficult to believe, but the doe was her tame pet and followed her at a slow walk. Something must have startled it and it ran a short distance away from the girl. Before they disappeared, I heard the girl say, “Miss Doe, why did you run away? Daddy wasn’t cursing at you. It was me he yelled at. He’s always angry. You know that I love you.” Then she caught up with the deer and wrapped her arms gently around its neck and hugged it with her face pressed against the neck.

 I felt pity for her, but it would be dangerous, perhaps fatal, for me to let her see me, so I stayed hidden and silent, but wondered why someone would live this far away from the main position, down river, in the more populated area of criminals and rogues. I smelled no smoke, heard no noises except for the girl. Is it possible that she had been left home alone? Should I check on her?  I wondered what to do, but finally I told myself not to interfere. Keep moving. Get going.

                                      *******

Lily: “Is that deer part of the story really true or is it one of those things that makes the story more interesting?”

Slone: “You mentioned that last time, too. How are we supposed to believe that? I know you sometimes forget to mention things in the story, but could that really happen, Da?”

Me: “When I was a little older than you guys are now, a teacher came to live in the community. His name was Mr. Hart. When younger he’d gone to a university in Boston. He should have been teaching somewhere much more important than our village. My dad said that he heard that Mr. Hart and his wife wanted to move away from Boston because of the war, the American war for independence from England. It was a dangerous place to live now that there were so many more English soldiers and so many restrictions, and taxes. They were tired of the chaos and violence so when they saw the advertisement of a teacher in our village, they packed up and came.

The first day I went to school, it was in an old wood shed. Luckily, Mr. Hart was also a good carpenter who later helped build much that was in the expanding village. Mr. Hart was smart, had more books than our library and he was sociable. His wife, Mrs. Hart, and his daughter, Alice, fit in nicely into our community. Mrs. Hart and Alice assisting, raised chickens and supplied the area with eggs. At that time eggs were wanted for the easiness of cooking something quickly that was also nourishing.

Mr. Hart even helped to build the new school, which was just a small cabin with a dirt floor, well chinked with two windows and one door. It had a large wood stove to take the chill off the air in fall. Well one day in school I asked him why there were so few pets, not only in the colonies but even fewer in westward settlements like ours. One woman had a cat but there were no dogs. Mr. Hart’s sensible and simple answer surprised all of us students. He said that life in the colonies usually meant no pets could come with people who crossed the ocean to get to America. It was costly to try to bring a pet. The owners would need to bring extra food, there would be pets stealing food, the pets would fight, plus they get sick easily and often died, and then there’s the poop than gets all over the deck. Plus, they often hid themselves and couldn’t be found until the stench of poop, death and decay made it possible to locate them. Also, impatient, angry, and cruel crew members sometimes threw the pets overboard when a pet bothered them, with barking, growling, and biting. This would cause anger, arguments and discord between the travelers and the ship’s crew members.

Instead, when they landed and made a new home, people raided nests of animals that had babies. They fed them, watched them grow and the animals would bond with the person like a human baby to its mother. Many kids had pet squirrels, pet birds, raccoons, deer, snakes, frogs, turtles.

Lily: “What do you mean by ‘bonding’?”

Me: “It means emotionally attaching itself to the one that feeds it and cares for it, like a human baby will bond itself quickly to its mother because she’s the one who usually feeds it, cares for it, gives it loving attention. So, yes, that’s a true part of the story. Let’s keep going with the story.”

                                      *******

“When I felt safe in the darkness, I continued to follow the River of Oysters. I wasn’t familiar with the thing called an oyster. I did find hard shelled things that looked like clams (Much later I learned from the Mr. Hart that what I found could not have been oysters because oysters only live in salt water, not fresh water.) Most likely, he stated, what I found were mussels, which I never heard of, but was eating as I traveled along the river. Mr. Hart thought that the Indians misinterpreted or mispronounced the word “oyster.” He had no sensible explanation for why the Indians would call it The River of ‘Oysters.’

Mr. Hart also explained about mussels and clams that were in fresh water. They could be eaten raw and were plentiful, two ideal traits for a long distance traveler. I’m sure nobody would believe me back home, but the teacher had been in many places where they started making pets out of wild rabbits, squirrels, and birds. Nobody believed me when I said what I saw, except Mr. Hart.

          Now that I was traveling more slowly in the night, I realized that my guess of two days travel was probably going to be more like three or four days to reach my departure point from the Susquehanna River. When that occurred, the plan of following rivers temporarily ended. I now had a clear idea where I was. I only had to travel north eastward until I came to a river that the Iroquois named ‘Water That Floods’ (the Schoharie River). It took me about forty-five miles to get to that river that I hoped was the one I vaguely had heard of and had no idea how to say its name. Later I found out (the teacher again) that the name of the river was pronounced like ‘Ska-har-ee. At the time of finding the river I couldn’t have cared less how to say its name. What mattered was that once found, I needed to travel eastward, always eastward, until villages or houses, homes of white people, were found. That would lead me to my home.

          Raven Feathers consulted with Gray Cloud about this last part of the journey. Raven Feathers said that I was to walk about four to six of the white man’s hours northward following the Susquehanna River, then cross that river wherever it’s convenient, and travel east for eight or ten hours and that should bring me to the river that the Iroquois named ‘Water That Floods’ which is now the Schoharie River. I was smiling like a red lipped clown at a birthday party.

                              CHAPTER 20

          “I’d lost track of my days traveling. I didn’t want to think about anything but getting home. I often staggered unbalanced, as if I were drunk. That’s how exhausted, sore, and beaten by the wilderness I felt. I was skin and bone, but not starving. Having food available without wasting time hunting for it might be one of the main reasons that I had survived. Did my pursuers go hungry? I had gotten used to small portions of food. They kept me going and almost always presented themselves to me. Lucky? Also, a determination to survive, not quit, keep struggling bolstered my low energy and assisted with keeping motivated. At the beginning I carried a few days’ worth of food. That gave me a chance to create distance from my pursuers. It was a time when food was not as important as traveling fast, determinedly, obsessively and with hope.

           I walked, jogged, and ran determinedly straight ahead, as if I were my dad’s plow horse with blinders on, so that I could only look downward at the row that was being plowed. When I arrived at what must be the ‘Water That Floods,’ I fell to my knees and kissed the ground. Silly, I know, but I was crazy happy, so I had to do something outrageous. Tears of joy poured down my cheeks and chin. I smiled at the thought that I had become a river that emotionally floods.

          I had been gone nearly two years. My family would think I was dead. The grieving should be over as their lives continued to be as normal as possible after having lost a son. What a surprise I would offer them, and what a relief I would feel to finally get home where not a day would go by that I didn’t think praiseworthy of Raven Feathers. If not for her, I’d have been dead for two years.

          Good fortune slapped me in the face, I looked at the river bank. Was this my old fishing spot? It was a spot so good that I kept it a secret. If this is that spot, then I’m now within a short walking distance of two miles from home. I looked for and found the familiar part of the river where I fished and swam. I placed river rocks into my bag, quickly circled my body two times with my arms outstretched, then let go of the bag which shot all the way across the river and landed at the base of a tree. Then I waded across the deep water, my toes barely touching the river bed with water up to my chin. I started laughing with joy, then unexpectedly swallowed water and coughed the remaining few feet to the opposite bank and stopped without getting out of the water feeling as if a heavy coat of dirt had floated off me. My skin tingled, felt cool and clean.

          I thought, why not bathe again tomorrow morning, get my body thoroughly clean, then wash the pants, shirt, and my hair before I present myself to my family. When I was naked and in the water, I noticed and felt most of my cuts, abrasions, rashes, and my sore and protruding ribs. I also spotted an assortment of bruises. The chilly water enhanced the pain of all of them, though the pain was not much, and was certainly bearable. I sank to my neck in the water and relaxed, thinking that I should spend the day here and go home in the morning after I had bathed again, and washed what cloths I had before presenting myself to my family. It would be a shock, but I didn’t want it to be a dirty shock.

          A croaking noise caught my attention. A black object sat on my bag, wings flapping slowly as if they were wet, and the raven was drying them. I thought about my raven friends with their distinctive ‘croaking’ sound, much different than a crow’s ‘caw, caw’ sound. And the raven has a thick, hooked beak, while a crow has a thin, straight beak coming to a point. A raven’s beak is thicker and longer than a crow’s beak. My raven sentinels had stuck by me and didn’t appear to want to fly away. Maybe this particular one, he or she, would become my pet just like that little girl made a doe her pet. The ravens had never departed, at least one was always there, though most of the time I wasn’t aware of them as the canopy of trees hid the sky from me most of the time. But I knew they were there from the distant croaking sound they made as they sliced through the sky.

          I decided to test the raven to see if it would stay with me. I exited the water, dressed in wet clothes, then approached my bag. The raven didn’t move as it stared at me making croaking sound. After that it opened and closed its beak as if it were talking silently. It gave me a creepy feeling. I slowly grabbed the bag’s strap and as I lifted it slowly, there was a flourish of black feathers in my face, then a weight on my shoulder, followed by mild pain from its clawed feet digging into my shoulder. It only made me grimace a few times. I said, “Your name now is Blacky, OK?”

          “Blacky,” the raven repeated back to me.

          I was stunned, silent, confused and disbelieving all at the same time. “Did I just hear him say ‘Blacky’?”

          “Blacky. Blacky,” the raven croaked.

          I built a fire and feasted that night. I only had a little jerky left, but I stoned two fish and as I did so, I also found six mussels. I roasted the fish whole and when they were done, I removed the unwanted parts. I opened the mussels with my knife, took out the meat, stuck a fresh but small branch (so it would not burn as fast as a dry stick) through all six and roasted them. They were so good that I entered the water again and searched of more mussels. I found four more, cooked them the same way and ate them quickly. Their taste was better than honey to me. I was full.

          It was a pleasantly warm night. I lay on the warm ground, stared at the stars, saw Raven Feathers’ image in the stars like it was a constellation. I talked to her, thanking her spirit, friendship, guidance, and protection. I thought I heard a distant whisper saying, “Nya-weh-sge-no,” I am thankful you are well. I thanked the ravens, and the wolf also. I heard a chorus of wolves howling and ravens croaking in the distance. I smiled at Blacky and petted his back feathers. He let me do it; maybe he liked it, like my dad likes my mom to scratch his back.

I fell asleep quickly as I listened to the rippling flow of the river.

THE DREAM

Bloody Hands is angry with his son. He grinds his teeth, then says, “You make shame on me too much. You no leader, no wise, no calm. There better boy trackers, better with knife, better with tomahawk, better with arrow!” he screamed.

Swift Arrow’s face inflamed with anger and humiliation. “Me,” he pointed to his chest with his thumb, then poked himself hard with it, “Need to try. Even if fail, I learn. Is good for be leader. I get skill. Learn be wiser.”

Bloody Hands — “You not see that you not leader? Other boys follow you because of me, Bloody Hands, fierce warrior. Much skill. You chase Black Kettle, but no catch. If no catch, return village. He no important to any but you. You hate control you. Bad for leader who not yet prove himself.”

Swift Arrow — “Boys follow. They respect. Many friends. Me their leader. You no understand. I track good. I be wise. Sometimes fail. Black Kettle make me look bad always. He laugh at me. I kill him. Prove to be warrior.”

          Bloody Hands —"You crazy boy, always. You no see it. You little boy crazy. Now you big boy crazy. Chase not be wise. Wrong to keep follow Black Kettle. He no Seneca, but spirits make boy danger. I wish to kill him on trail to village. My bad thinking. You no wise to follow one who be helped by spirits of Raven Feathers. Now he wear raven feathers. He protected. You no see bad for you? He make look weak. You stay away, but you no see. No be wise, no strong.”

Swift Arrow — Getting emotional, embarrassed as well as humiliated, and beginning to cry Swift Arrow said, “You no fear anyone? Is a lie. You say but others know you fear Raven Feathers. She look at you, you look away. That no be fear? You get laugh from some in village. Say you too old now. Get weak. Need Gray Cloud to help lead warriors.”

 Bloody Hands — Quickly he grabbed his war club. “You scared all time. You use me brave, courage, skill as warrior for protect you. You hide back of me!” he screamed at his son. “You shame me when you blame others. No blame self? Why? No blame others. Blame self.”

 Bloody Hands — Was so angry he lifted his tomahawk above SA’s head, paused, then lowered it. He kicked SA in the groin.

Swift Arrow — Collapsed, cried out in pain, then groaned a painful laugh at his father. “Mother fear you. When die, she glad. She say you bad man. An’ breath stink, she say. She get dry Golden Thread powder from Raven Feathers. Put in you food. You stink breath get better. Now I hate you like mother did.”

“See?” Bloody Hands screamed at Swift Arrow. “You no make wise decision. You get kick in eggs. No feel good. You talk hate. You no understand, but who you blame? Blame me? You feel this?” BH kicked SA in the head. SA lay on ground not moving.” BH says, “My courage, brave in fight, good hunter, all mean more than weak son. You like mother, no like me. I know people laugh. Laugh at you most. Too weak.” With a spark of regret, BH was bending over to check his son, but a noise made him snap his neck to look behind himself.

          Walking out of the forest and into the small clearing was Blackbird, taller, more muscular and years younger. His smile was an unspoken challenge and ridicule. “Me Huron, name of Blackbird. Enemy of all Iroquois. Grandson of mighty woman warrior, Basilah. You an old man.” BB held his tomahawk in one hand and a knife in the other.” Old man fight me now. I no boy baby. You beat weak son. Me stronger. You no run away, old man.”

          Bloody Hands – Rage distorted his face. He filled his hands with weapons in the exact way as BB, except he had a war club with a round, oblong river rock tied into the split top of the handle.

Both slowly stepped toward each other until they were two arm lengths away from each other. Blackbird grinned, Bloody Hands grimaced, then spit at BB’s feet in a sign of extreme disrespect. BB’s grin became a smile that riled BH. BH also saw no fear in BB’s eyes. He always had seen fear in the eyes of his opponents. The attacking and defending started slowly, each testing the reflexes of the other, and the quickness of movement, plus the power behind the swing of their weapons

          Blackbird taunted.” See? You old man. Move like turtle. You run. Save life, Turtle Man. You son be my slave. I hear many fake stories about you in fighting. I see you fear me.” BB smiled broadly, arrogantly, taunting BH’s who had never experienced that humiliation before, at any time in his life. He was so angry that he couldn’t swallow, nearly choking on his own saliva.

As they shouted, they circled each other, swinging their weapons constantly so they would already be in motion when they attacked or were attacked. (Weapons in motion react more quickly than stationary weapons. They are more distracting, too.)

Bloody Hands attacked first by lunging forward and swinging his war club horizontally at BB’s head. Blackbird quickly avoided the blow by taking a step backward, then laughed as he said, said, “Turtle Man too slow, too old. Good that son not old man die.”

They faced each other with hatred, then circled again, looking for the smallest of openings or weaknesses that they could push a weapon through to kill or wound the other man. Desperation and fury controlled BH’s face and body.

Blackbird, more relaxed, rushed forward at Bloody Hands, making BH swing his war club at the air between them. There was a ‘swishing’ sound as BH club rapidly cut through the air. BB knew it was a powerful blow, but he was expecting it. He would win with the quickness of youth, not power. BB noticed the sweat drops already on BH’s forehead. Soon they would roll into his eyes and sting, an advantage for BB. “Old man, sweat much? Old man tired? Why you no stay in village with old men, women?”

Bloody hands seethed with hatred. His heart rate doubled. He made a sudden move to confuse BB by swinging his club and knife in a figure eight, then jerking his foot forward as a ruse, but did not attack. It was a mind game now as well as a physical battle.

Blackbird rushed closer to BH this time, but BH only swung half way having figured that if he swung as powerfully as before he’d be off balance for BB’s rapid attack. He smiled having figured out his opponent’s tactic. “No fool this time. You fight like boy. You not brave. No courage. You pretend rush then run away like afraid boy.”

Blackbird was mildly tired, not sweating much, while he saw BH breathe heavily, mouth open to get rushes of air into his lungs. Sweat began stinging his eyes and they squinted often. BH wiped the forehead sweat away with his knife hand forearm, keeping his club ready to defend or attack. BB tried to rush forward again and BH hesitated to swing knowing BB liked to make false rushes. Then BH felt pain in his stomach and was suddenly face to face with BB feeling another pain. When he looked down, he saw BB’s knife buried in his stomach all the way to the handle. BH’s stood dazed, dropped his weapons, staggered, and grabbed his stomach wound with both hands as if not wanting his guts to spill onto the ground. BB backed away, laughing. BB grasped his tomahawk firmly, raised it with his muscled arm and sliced into the base of BH’s neck, where it meets the shoulder. The spray of blood shot ten feet away from BH’s neck before he crumbled to the ground. BH’s raised his blood covered hands in front of his disbelieving eyes and stared at them. Just before he died, he said, “Me Bloody Hands” in a gurgling voice.

Blackbird scalped Bloody Hands to use it as proof that he’d killed the great Seneca warrior Bloody Hands. BB smiled knowing he’d be famous, and many stories would be told and exaggerated about his adventures, his bravery, and his skills in combat.

Blackbird walked to Swift Arrow’s prone body, tied his hands behind his back with a leather cord, then with a much longer piece of leather rope, he made a noose and placed it around SA’s neck. He spilled water on SA until SA woke. He made SA look at his father’s body, then told him he’d be a slave in the Huron village. BB pulled on the rope attached to the noose, jerking SA forward. BB turned to look at SA and said, “You father right. You stupid boy.” SA stagger-stepped in disbelief, and denial. The first thing he clearly thought of was Black Kettle’s description of what hopelessness felt like. He did not laugh this time.

                                      *******

“So, Lily and Slone, early the next morning, while it was still dark, I prepared to leave the river bank and make the final journey home. I bathed and washed my clothes. I put them back on wet. I was anxious to get home and didn’t eat. My stomach still felt full from gorging myself the night before. I made sure the fire was soaked with river water, then started walking. I heard a croaking sound, then the weight on my right shoulder. I had placed the used and washed ‘poop-cloth’ that Raven Feathers gave to me on my shoulder (the other one I used to bandage the she-wolf), so the raven’s claws didn’t dig me too badly. It worked. I could smell fish, so I knew that Blacky had caught and eaten fish during the night or early morning hours. I walked casually and comfortably toward the village. I was talking loudly to myself in a joyful voice when I heard my raven’s croaking voice say, “Me Blacky.” I knew that ravens could mimic speech. Raven Feathers told me that they seldom do it. It’s rare for them to like someone enough to mimic them.

I’m certain that Blacky was a gift sent from Raven Feathers, a reminder of how I became her adopted son and our close relationship. I wondered what my dad, mom and sister would think of Blacky. Then I realized that they wouldn’t recognize me right away, especially from a distance and walking to them with a raven on my shoulder? I was early. Maybe no one was up and doing chores yet, but I knew that mom and dad usually rose from bed about sunrise and that moment was quickly approaching. I would tell them many remarkable stories and omit the bad ones, except that I may tell my father, if he asks. I’d keep the badness to myself or too a minimum, depending on who was inquiring. I would make-up a pleasant story about making Blacky my pet. I thought that it was funny that the lie about Blacky would not bother me at all, but the preacher? He frowned until I reminded him that everyone, absolutely everyone who can think and speak can lie to themselves and to others. And everyone does lie throughout their whole lives. It’s built into the character of all humanity, I told him. How many times have you lied, preacher? Having free-will makes it possible to do it as much as you want. I smiled at him, then smiled with him as he realized the truth.

Blacky needed to stretch his wings. I felt the sharp pressure on my shoulder, the spring of his feet, the flapping of his wings that brought a mild breeze to my face, then a black cross in the sky. I chuckled at how Blacky, while soaring in the sky, reminded me of a Christian Cross. A strange thought, leading to the entrance of a maze, cloaked in confusion. I put that thought out of my mind.

 I was glad that I didn’t approach my home the night before. I may have been mistaken for a renegade or a distrusted white beggar or a scoundrel and then seen and approached with great suspicion. I was sure that I was taller, and leaner now. My growing facial bones had altered my appearance from a beardless, baby-faced teenager’s to a more mature, more manly appearance, accompanied by facial shadow of a future beard and mustache.

I walked for about an hour or so, recognizing the land near that formed the boundary of the village. I could see my family’s cabin in the distance. I also saw a new building, one with a peaked roof and a Christian Cross jutting higher than the peak of the roof. Something else caught my attention. The sun had risen just over the horizon and was positioned so the cross was centered in it. Blacky landed on cross. It gave me much to think about: destiny, fate, indoctrination or, simply, many difficult choices, hopefully, reasonable ones.

 I walked toward the cabin wondering if, after two years, this was still my home; would I still fit in? Then a more pleasant thought; do I now have another sister, or do I have a little brother? I smiled as I walked toward the cabin with the distant sound of a lone wolf howling as Blacky croaked and moved his beak as if in a conversation.

I saw the cabin door open and smiled to myself.

                                       EPILOGUE

I was welcomed home with tears and hugs, plus questions that seemed as if they would never end. I told the story over and over, but kept one part of the story a secret, the last part that happened after I was home for a while.

Blacky was still hanging around the cabin though not being friendly to anyone but me. The town’s people were amazed by seeing the raven. It didn’t hurt anyone, nor did damage anything. It was also an omnivore so it would eat many things, mostly insects, small animals like mice and moles, lizards, frogs, sometimes fish and birds eggs. I talked to him when I was alone. Three things I asked him not to do was raid the gardens, not damage the corn fields, and not hurt anyone. It was nice that I didn’t have to feed him. On occasion I’d leave him a pile of berries or a corncob. He eats the berries off the ground and it’s a funny sight to see him pick up the corn cob and fly away with it. Occasionally I would see him with other ravens, as if they were visitors. I wondered how long Blacky would stay with me. I grew to like him increasingly.

Wherever I went, Blacky was always a short distance away, usually at the top of a tree or in the church bell tower. Blacky had become my symbol of luck and safety. The community viewed it that was, too. They took his presence so seriously that the settlement villagers were asked to never shoot at it. I was skeptical, but he was never shot at, to my knowledge.

It took a year for people to stop their inquiries: How I lived, the clothes I wore, the things I ate, how I hunted, how I was treated, but most questions centered around Raven Feathers and her medicines, plus how she used them and made them. The gauntlet was the second thing most asked about. I was surprised when so many people wanted to see the clothes that Raven Feathers made for me. So, one day long trip to retrieve those clothes. They attracted much attention, actually people felt the leather, tried to stretch it, smelled it, analyzed the sewing, studied the decorations on it. It surprised me.

 I avoided, as much as possible, with quick, short answers to any questions about Bloody Hands and Swift Arrow.

I showed them the clothes Raven Feathers made for me and explained how we lived together and grew like a loving nephew and his dear grandmother. Naturally, I got some shocked eyes and expressions about the ‘living together’ part of my experience.

I didn’t want to travel away from home where I was safe and secure. I skipped the church get-together socials, dances, or anything that put me in a crowd, even a small group of people. But the Mr. and Mrs. Hart’s daughter, Alice, was a couple of years younger than I me, so I had my eye on her. She knew it and encouraged me. Sometimes we picnicked under an oak tree whose branches spread out so far that they produced a large area of shade. Both of our families were pleased.

I helped my mom and dad with the farm. I had grown up tall and muscular. My dad was so please with my help that he often had his hand on my shoulder to express his good feelings. Mom was constantly hugging me. I liked it. We seemed to be a much closer family now, especially since Franny was frolicsome and happy to have me back home. However, not a single day went by that I didn’t think of Raven Feathers, the ravens, the wolves, and portions of my life while living with the Seneca. My thoughts were mostly happy, enjoyable.

One week I had an uneasy feeling and couldn’t explain it. It was the week of my twentieth birthday. I came outside about an hour after sunrise. The first think I do when outside is to look to see where Blacky is, but this morning I could not see him. That was unusual and I worried. I searched the tall trees and the church tower, then peered at the western sky where I saw a black dot. The dot got bigger as it got closer. Blacky was returning from somewhere. When it got close enough I could see a string hanging from its beak. When closer I thought the string was a snake, but a snake with an overlarge head. Blacky dove at me and landed by my feet. I greeted him, talked to him, welcomed him back, but then, one the ground, near my feet I saw the False Face medallion and leather cord that I had made for Raven Feathers. I kneeled down, tears flooding my cheeks and dripping off my chin. I cried as I have never cried before. The medallion was a message informing me that Raven Feathers had died. She told me that this might happen. I hoped it wouldn’t.

I picked up Blacky, placing him on my shoulder, not feeling its claws. I felt pain but it was all mental. I felt dizzy and staggered, not knowing if Blacky really had said, “Bye, Bye,” or “Die, Die.” I petted his feathers, then gently scratched his head which is something he enjoyed. He stayed the remainder of the day, but in the morning he was gone. I never saw Raven Feathers or Blacky again. Now I knew I had to continue with a normal life and I would try. Later in the morning I saw Alice going to school with her dad. She was now old enough to teach and she was assisting her dad. Some day she would take over a teacher’s duties. Also, someday, I planned to marry her, but I’d need time to get over my intense sadness.

The End