Language of the Bear

by Nathanael Green

  “You should be glad,” said Wolf Tongue. “Otherwise you’d be fishing or hunting. Because of me, you might actually kill something today.”

  The men chuckled and Bone Snake adjusted a bearskin that he wore. The bear’s head hung on his chest and beneath its open maw, Bone Snake had painted designs of the tortoise on the muscles of his abdomen.

  Wolf Tongue, too, adjusted his cloak that Bone Snake had worn when he was young and gifted his nephew. This was made from the hide of two wolves with their heads designed as sleeves so his arms came out the open mouths. Around his neck he wore a necklace of bone and claws that a holy man had blessed along with the silver chain he’d taken from the boy who’d tried to kill him.

  Wolf Tongue looked to Bone Snake and Strikes Twice. “I’ll need your eyes,” he said. “Scout ahead. Go with Stones-in-Trees, Black Tooth, Copperhead, and Takes-the-Knife. See if you can find Storm-of-Villages and his men. Make sure you spread out to search the surrounding area, but be careful. Come back to us as soon as you see anything. And only search until midday.”

  As Bone Snake waved his warnings off, Wolf Tongue felt an unusual sense of tension in his chest. These men were Susquehannock warriors, and older than him. They knew their business in war, but still, Wolf Tongue felt the responsibility for them like a chain tied around his spirit. He led these men now, and his decisions as much as their own prowess decided whether they would return to the village, or if their spirit would go to face the trials of Hahgwehdiyu.

  The brothers nodded their assent and each embraced Wolf Tongue, then trotted off to gather the other scouts. Wolf Tongue watched them go off at a slow run, first to the Ring of Ancestors for a moment of prayer, then out beyond the palisade and out of sight.

  He looked around with a breath that cooled his nostrils and throat. The men had gathered in groups, four, five, ten, to do their personal preparations before the dawn. Shaving one another’s heads, painting their faces and bodies, stretching muscles in mock battle.

  Now they stood about, waiting to be led to war. Some held long war clubs, others tested the strings on their bows, doubtless planning to launch arrows faster than any man could reload a musket. Others leaned forward with arms crossed on a gun. Many fidgeted with some magical bone or wooden fetish, a link to their ancestors’ power. Wolf Tongue noticed many quick glances his way, their eyes waiting, encouraging, curious. Only a few men near Kicks-the-Oneida seemed to glare over at him with barely concealed contempt, but even they would follow him.

  Kicks-the-Oneida wore a cloak much like Wolf Tongue’s, though the older’s was made of two bear heads, and recently made. He stood with his hands folded atop the butt of a gun-stock war club, his shoulders pulled back. He spoke slowly to his son, who was too young to fight.

  Wolf Tongue sensed movement to his left and turned. Pyke had risen and approached. His clothes were somewhat ragged, but he had cleaned and straightened them the best he could. He had brushed his hair and retied it and had scrubbed his face. It was as if he purposefully removed all coloring while the Susquehannock painted themselves.

  Pyke looked more polished than he had the day before, and more stern. He had lamented the loss of his own pistol and gratefully accepted the gift of a new one, along with one of the muskets Wolf Tongue had taken from his last battle. But it was his sword that made him. The steel at his hip seemed to put steel in his spine.

  “We’re soon ready,” said Wolf Tongue. “The sun will be up soon and we’ll move slowly.”

  Pyke looked to the east and nodded. “Then let us do this.”

  Wolf Tongue swallowed and looked to Fox’s Smile. She stood with her arms crossed, her eyes upon him. That tiny, inscrutable grin that she sometimes wore pulled her mouth wider. She nodded to him, almost imperceptibly.

  Wolf Tongue lifted his musket from the ground at his feet and thrust it into the air above his head. With all his breath, he cried out to the spirits in a ululating cry. His voice sliced through the thin morning air and echoed once off the hills before it was joined with the screams of forty Susquehannock warriors.

  ***

  Copperhead was the first scout to return. He came jogging back along a deer trail long before the sun moved a quarter of the way across the sky.

  Wolf Tongue and Pyke had led the slow progress through the forest north of the village with their warriors spread out behind and to either side, like a rising ebb of the river spreading among the trees. They moved cautiously, watching for any sign of returning scouts to give them more time and to ensure that Storm-of-Villages had planned no surprises already.

  Wolf Tongue heard a commotion off to his right and immediately readied his musket, only to see the ungainly form of Copperhead come jogging toward him. The warrior was young, younger than Wolf Tongue, and had yet to fully grow into his body. But he was fast and sure-footed, and had a sharp mind.

  He stopped and leaned with his hands on his knees. Through heavy breaths, he said, “I’ve seen them. They’re coming.”

  A thrill ran through Wolf Tongue. So he was right! Storm-of-Villages came to take his revenge on the village. For a moment, he felt the satisfaction of victory—Kicks-the-Oneida hadn’t believed it was true—but then it soured with the realization that this small victory meant danger for his entire tribe. A rumble lifted as the news spread among the warriors.

  “Where are they?” asked Wolf Tongue.

  “North. They’re moving slowly, but coming along the old road that leads toward Muddy Lake.”

  “How many?”

  Copperhead gulped some more air. “Thirty or thirty-five. I did not get too close.”

  “Were you seen or followed?”

  Copperhead finally stood upright with a slow breath. He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Good.” Wolf Tongue grasped the man’s arm in appreciation. “You did well. Take a rest while you can.” Copperhead stepped away and gratefully accepted a water skin from Runs-in-Water.

  Pyke caught Wolf Tongue’s eye, and the Susquehannock translated into English.

  Pyke seemed to look far into the distance. “It seemed he had about that many in his camp. Perhaps that truly is all his men.”

  Wolf Tongue mulled the information and looked out through the dense wood as if he could see Storm-of-Villages.

  “We should go to him,” said Kicks-the-Oneida who had followed not far from Wolf Tongue since leaving the village. He had said nothing to this point. He stared from behind swollen cheeks and abrasions on his lips and forehead.

  When Wolf Tongue only regarded him in silence, the older man continued in Susquehannock. “He is only thirty men strong, and unfamiliar with the land. I say we choose the land where we can rush down on him and crush him all at once. But you are the war chief.”

  Wolf Tongue answered in English. “We’ll choose our own ground. But we do not rush in. We need patience as much as strength.”

  Kicks-the-Oneida grunted in response and Wolf Tongue could see his spirit chafing at its tethers after being removed from leadership. He turned to Copperhead and spoke again in Susquehannock—better to use his own people’s language and translate for Pyke later.

  “How are they coming?”

  “They were by the river when I saw them, on the road. I think they come straight on.”

  In his peripheral vision, Wolf Tongue saw Kicks-the-Oneida shake his head in disgust or frustration, but he said nothing.

  Wolf Tongue raised his voice slightly so that more of his war party could hear. “Just north, the river goes past two large hills, one on either bank. We settle in there and wait for them. That’s where we earn our manhood in blood.”

  Copperhead smiled and nodded. A few excited whoops lifted into the air and again the forest rumbled as news passed along the warriors and they discussed it among themselves.

  As the group again set off, this time at a faster pace, Wolf Tongue explained the plan to Pyke.

  “You plan to pin them against the water,” said the soldier.

&nbs
p; “First, I plan to let them shoot at the trees. Let them waste their muskets while we still have cover. Then we rush down and drive them into the river. It’s not deep there, but it’ll still be harder to fight out of the water.”

  Pyke nodded, slowly, as if in thought. “And if Azariah has other plans? Or other forces to help?”

  “We must move as one, either way,” said Wolf Tongue. “I don’t trust him to wait while we cut his throat, so that’s why we must be patient. What is it your dead people say? Much council, but one decision? I’ll wait as long as I can to be sure our attack is good. But even if there are other dangers, we must not separate our warriors.”

  Pyke’s head bobbed in agreement. “Dividing our force would be unwise.”

  “Our force?” asked Wolf Tongue. “I didn’t see you fighting Kicks-the-Oneida.”

  Pyke grinned, but only briefly. His face returned to the same funereal graveness it’d taken since his capture. He said, “Would that I had a troop of soldiers to fight with us, but you have the right of it. Be wary. Armies with far greater numbers have fallen to smaller forcers.”

  “You should know that your cheeriness does not inspire courage,” said Wolf Tongue.

  “It’s meant to inspire caution.”

  ***

  Bone Snake returned just as Wolf Tongue’s party halted at the top of the hill. Wolf Tongue was alerted as the scout came at a half-run up the north face. Moments later, much of his force gathered round as he listened to what he’d seen.

  Bone Snake confirmed what Copperhead had told him. Storm-of-Villages came with thirty to forty men, following the road beside the river. They would pass this way in two hours if their progress held.

  “He thinks we will wait for him in our village,” said Bone Snake as he stretched his back. “So he marches easily along the road.”

  Wolf Tongue gnawed at the inside of his cheek then lifted one eyebrow. “That would make sense. Why would any sane man leave the high ground and a palisade?”

  A wicked grin grew sideways on Bone Snake’s mouth. “He wouldn’t.”

  Wolf Tongue patted the bearskin that covered the older man’s chest and smiled. “Good work, uncle. Find some rest, and a safe hiding spot, but be ready. When Storm-of-Villages comes through, wait for my signal.”

  He turned to look at the gathering around him. He was surrounded by faces painted in stripes of black and red, or with gruesome smears of white like the dead. “That goes for everyone. Do not attack or move until I do.”

  “You want the first kill for yourself?” asked one man who stood beside Kicks-the-Oneida. The question was mostly jovial, but had a flavor of hidden bitterness.

  “I had the first kill ten days ago while you were asleep,” said Wolf Tongue, then grew somber. “No. Storm-of-Villages is crafty. Like a rattlesnake, if you’d kill it, be sure your blow is straight the first time. Otherwise you won’t like its bite.”

  Wolf Tongue laid out his plan to his men. All seemed to agree it was best, though Kicks-the-Oneida glowered constantly. Despite his anger, he nodded in agreement. The men would spread out slightly along the hilltop facing down to the river. A few scouts would spread out again, farther north and also along the back of the hill to watch for other groups.

  As the men began picking their cover and settling in to a quiet, tense readiness, Wolf Tongue turned to Bone Snake again.

  “Where are the others?”

  Bone Snake pulled his bow from its sheath and wrapped it around one leg to bend and string it. He did not look from his work as he answered. “Black Tooth went across the river to the east to strike north on the far side. Strikes Twice left at a run to curve out west and north. But you know how he is. He’ll run himself out and be back just in time to finish off the wounded.” Bone Snake shook his head at his younger brother. “Stones-in-Trees wasn’t far from me as we headed north, though he was on the valley side and went further west.”

  Wolf Tongue nodded silently as he surveyed the ground he’d chosen. If the scouts weren’t back for the battle, that meant three strong men they’d miss from their numbers. Still, it was better to have them scour the countryside and find nothing than to have them by his side and lose his eyes on the landscape.

  From where he stood, he could easily see the slice of brown that was the river just more than two hundred strides away. It would likely be too far for any good shots with a musket, though some of the stronger shooters might hit their mark from here. Instead, his men would have to run partially down the slope before firing, but he wanted to give them as much cover and distance as he could. Even after running half way down the hill, the Susquehannock would still be protected by cover of trees and rocks.

  The men around him had settled into comfortable positions among the trees and low scrub that covered the hillside. Some men sat in groups of two or three and talked in hushed whispers, already quieting in hope of a successful ambush. Others lay splayed out in the fallen leaves, resting on their bellies with heads in their arms to take what rest they could before the battle. Even from where he stood, Wolf Tongue could barely make out the forms of some of the men who’d settled farther away from him as they blended with the landscape.

  Kicks-the-Oneida settled into a dip in the earth where a tree had fallen and yanked its roots to vertical. He sat with just his head visible above the edge not more than ten strides away. He stared at Wolf Tongue for a moment, then offered a slight nod. Whether it was meant as encouragement, acknowledgement, or insult, Wolf Tongue did not know.

  Runs-in-Water lay on his belly to Wolf Tongue’s left. On his right, Pyke sat with his back to the trunk of a pine whose shaggy boughs started only at shoulder height. Wolf Tongue settled himself and took a long breath.

  “You are very quiet today,” he said in English.

  Pyke sat with his eyes closed. “I do not like this type of fighting. It is better to face a man and see his eyes if you mean to kill him.”

  “There seem to be a lot of things you do not like.”

  Pyke looked over his shoulder and studied Wolf Tongue with those light eyes. “That is true. But some things are necessary, even if I do not like them.”

  Wolf Tongue stared back. “That is true.”

  After a moment, Pyke reclined his head against the tree and said, “When this is done, what will you do? You will have fulfilled your blood oath and led your tribe in war. What is next for Wolf Tongue of the Wolf Clan?”

  “I will rejoice over Storm-of-Villages’ body. Then, I will marry Fox’s Smile and make some children. But first, I have many jogah to thank properly. And you? What’s next for Lieutenant Hugh Pyke of the English?”

  A long silence passed that made Wolf Tongue look to his friend to see if he were still awake. Pyke sat with his head against the tree, but now with his eyes open, staring off into what worlds Wolf Tongue did not know.

  “I am a British officer. So I will hold to my duty.”

  Wolf Tongue did not know what he meant, though something in his tone carried a finality to it, and he did not question further. Instead, he settled back quietly and waited.

  The time passed slowly. Wolf Tongue’s eyes began to tire from searching the horizon for signs of movement. Even the scuffling of a squirrel made his muscles tense. He could feel the quiet anxiousness in the air as the rest of his warriors fingered their weapons and watched for their enemy.

  Then, as if they’d risen from the mud, Storm-of-Villages’ party suddenly appeared. Wolf Tongue could hear the muted rustle of movement, tramping feet and chatter. It was as if a smear moved across the ground ahead and towards him.

  Wolf Tongue tensed, but studied it for a moment. Slowly, he turned to see the whites of his warriors’ eyes glancing to him. In them, he saw the same impatience that cried out in his belly. He felt a longing to leap down the hill with his musket to his shoulder and finish this thing now.

  Pyke’s whisper in his ear made him start. The English was so close that he felt the breath of air on his cheek. “He moves too boldly.” />
  Wolf Tongue looked back, a question in his expression.

  Pyke frowned and leaned in again for the quietest whisper. “It seems that he comes with his full force without fear.”

  “Does he know fear? Does he have reason to?”

  Pyke shook his head in frustration. “This is how Europeans move their troops to battle on an open field. And if he plans to siege your town, it makes sense.” He gritted his teeth. “It’s how we’re taught, but now, sitting here like a highwayman makes Azariah seem a dolt for staying in the open. Perhaps he is just as rigid as I am. Or was.”

  Wolf Tongue looked back to the moving smear that had become clearer now. He could just pick out definite shapes of men, though they were still too far to see clearly or even begin to move his ambush.

  A sudden movement to his left made Wolf Tongue reach for his tomahawk. Kicks-the-Oneida came toward them silently and hunched down to the ground.

  “Were the scouts right?” he asked.

  “Forty men.”

  “Then they have no chance.” There was no glee in Kicks-the-Oneida’s face, but a danger that reminded Wolf Tongue of just how formidable the warrior was. He turned his eyes to Wolf Tongue. “I say this because you are the war chief and I would give you my council. We should attack sooner, rather than later. Do not let them go past us and closer to the village. Hammer them against the river, and if they flee, let them go north away from our families.”

  Wolf Tongue met the man’s gaze. “There will be battle. But caution will win it for us. I will not let these men get to our village.”

  Kicks-the-Oneida stared back, but did not respond. Instead, he settled to the ground on crossed legs.

  They did not have much longer to wait, though Wolf Tongue mulled Kicks-the-Oneida’s words. He was right. If they moved too late, Storm-of-Villages would rush south, flee toward their town. His men had horses and would move faster, kill the Susquehannock left in the village and use the high ground and palisades that Wolf Tongue had foolishly left.