The Sire Sheaf

by Russ L. Howard

  “I believe it is good news, but it is for Onamingo and the Council of the Three Tribes to decide. I take it Onamingo is the father of whom you speak.”

  She grinned. “He is and when he told us of your coming, he warned us to be on our best behavior.” Her eyes twinkled in mischief. “I guess we can scrap that idea now.”

  Sur Sceaf laughed, “I would not have wished it otherwise, Ahy. You’re shivering. We should get you to a fire soon. My camp is just over there and the coals are still hot. I could quickly toss on some pine and get you dry in no time.”

  She nodded. “I cannot stay long. I have camp duties and besides, Father likes to awake to a warm breakfast.”

  “Should not a chief’s daughter also enjoy a warm breakfast? Please, at least stay until you are dried and warm.”

  Taneshewa consented. Sur Sceaf built the fire up and prepared food for her. They talked and laughed the dawn hours away, forgetting the passing of time. The morning flew on wings of lightening, so enchanting was the time they spent together. When the sun grew warm, Taneshewa knew she had lingered too long and Onamingo would be awaiting his breakfast.

  Worried, Taneshewa said, “The sun climbs too fast. I regret I must leave.”

  “I will walk with you. It’s wrong that this conversation should ever come to an end.”

  Sur Sceaf walked behind, pressing branches of pine out of the way, sneaking glances at her perfect legs, and waiting till the path widened enough to walk beside her.

  Glancing his way she said, “You are not Quailor, yet you were wearing this Quailor shirt and those soft leather hunting boots are definitely Hyrwardi and hide your scramasax very well.”

  “And you are very observant. My mo fa was Ludwig Hollar, the man your people called the Flying Wolf. He was of the Quailor and therefore, I am bonded to all three bloods for my Mo Mo Redith of the Sharaka was his wife.”

  “Your grandparents are well known among us. Your mo mo, as you call her, is the Thunder Horse’s and Sagwi’s sister. Tales of her scrying abound here.”

  “Then you, of course, will know the Thunder Horse is my uncle.”

  “In these parts he is highly respected. His prophecies never fall to the ground. His wisdom and guidance are besought by all the chiefs, including my father. I, too, have hung upon his prophecies.” She then glanced at Sur Sceaf’s side, touched the medicine belt and said, “I noticed you wear the medicine belt. Did it come by way of your uncle?”

  “Yes, I value the gift. It is one of my most prized possessions.”

  “Ah,” her eyes twinkled once more, “so you are a man of big medicine. For none other would be trusted with such.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “A strange enough creature you are, Sur Sceaf of the Hyrwardi, but the blood mix compliments you very well.” He saw the sparkle in her eye, the inviting smile, and the admiring glances she shot at him which set his heart to racing like a young blood’s.

  “That is what my wife, Faechild says, but Sharaka friends tell me, I am pure Sharaka in my thinking.”

  Taneshewa stiffened. Her face changed. All the warmth and flirtatious interchange turned as cold as the peat path under foot.

  “We must go,” she stated abruptly, “I’m late.” Without even a glance, she tossed her raven black hair over her shoulder and set off up the path at a more rapid pace.

  “Have I said something to offend you?” Sur Sceaf asked. He quickened his step to match hers. “I bear no offense towards you. I find you very intriguing and only sought to know you better.”

  She snapped. “Onamingo cannot suffer lateness for his breakfast.”

  Sur Sceaf searched for possible reasons for her withdrawal, but finding none, he strove to keep pace with her until they came into the clearing by the lake, which was the hub of the camp. He followed her to the left.

  The camp was bustling with people. He heard a hound baying. People were rousing for the morning. Campfires were being lit. To his left he noticed several squaws were tending their steaming kettles while nudging one another and whispering something about him. Sumptuous cooking smells fed his nostrils and teased his hunger. But nothing had ever drawn him in like this Taneshewa. He was no lack beard in his courting, and was therefore damned sure that she had been flirting with him as well.

  A traditional long lodge had been erected in the hub of the encampment.

  She nodded stiffly in that direction, and said coldly, “That is where you’ll meet Chief Onamingo at midday.”

  Before he could respond, she spun on her heel without so much as a backward look, leaving him standing there wondering what just happened. Well, so be it. I don’t have time to tease out this woman’s strange moods. After all, I came here to unite not divide.

  While he was in the center of the camp he decided to assess the layout. The camp was well-organized. The women were all busy preparing for the day. Children tended to their morning chores. It had been ten years since he had been in Mendaka’s Camp, and he felt the nostalgia of his boyhood spent here. The smells and the colorful tipis brought back many fond memories of his youth, an innocent time filled with magical awareness of the fishing, hunting, Lacrosse games, and flirting.

  It was here that he had met Shining Moon, a radiant shy beauty who had led him a merry chase. Unlike the other Sharaka maidens who seemed enthralled by his exotic features, the others pursued him, but her brief glances said more than all the flirtations of the other maidens. He remembered one time in particular where she sat on a white barked pine log in the space now occupied by the long lodge. She was reading a scroll with her friend, Mendaho, on the history of their people and shared with him the stories of the Thunder Beings from the Mountain Scrolls. He remembered how her eyes shone as she described the power of the Manitous. From what he had been able to discern, both she and Mendaho were driven to understand the forces of the spirits that ruled the nations. This was the first time he realized these two women’s minds reached farther than most people for answers and it pleased him much.

  The memory was so endearing that despite the presence of the long lodge in that space, he could still see her studious look as she sat there and explained the mythology to him. It was ironic that this massive hogan was decorated with the same mythical entities she had described to him on that day.

  The long lodge, built by Mendaka to temporarily house the king-chief, was a structure fashioned of lodge poles covered with an arch of saplings and cedar bark. On either side of the door flaps were medicine wheels in which the four serpents sent their heads to the four corners of the world just as on his medicine belt.

  Two powerful braves stood guard on either side of the door, alert and watchful. To the left of the lodge was a series of tipis, one of which was his and the other bore the mark of Mendaka of the Snake Clan—a black double letter AA with a red serpent arrow shooting through them. Going Snake was just entering the tent with a load of firewood in his arms.

  On the other side of Mendaka’s tipi stood Onamingo’s tipi marked with the totem animals of snake and horse, he being of both clans. As Taneshewa approached a group of women cooking she was surrounded by three little black-haired girls between seven and ten winters. The tallest girl tugged on her shirt and said, “Ahy, why are you wearing this funny shirt?”

  Taneshewa laughed, “Because that nasty Fur-Puller made off with my clothes while I was bathing!”

  One of the girls pointed at Going Snake running in Sur Sceaf’s direction. “Going Snake,” she yelled, “Fur Puller is in big trouble again!”

  “Ahy, forgive me, I came to find you,” the boy cried. “I am sorry my hound pup has stolen your clothing. He likes to bury what he steals, but I got to him before he dug the holes. He only chewed on them a little bit. I got them all and Mama is down at the stream washing them for you now. She sent me to apologize and to tell you she will have them done for you by sunset.”

  She gave him an endearing smile, which Sur Sceaf wished was for him. “I’m sorry too, Going Snake, from
now on I’ll put my clothes up higher.”

  The boy turned to go to his tipi when he spotted Sur Sceaf who had paused to gather some firewood from the communal pile, “Oh, Sur Sceaf. You are up. Papa is still asleep. He met with the Spirit Chiefs of the other tribes late into the night at the crater before returning to camp at near dawn, so Mother sent me out to gather kindling. That’s why I took my hound out for a little run. I didn’t think he’d take off. It’s obvious he does not hunt near. He hunts far.”

  “It seems your hound found quite the prize.” He smiled, and noticed a look of anger cross Taneshewa’s face.

  Taneshewa looked at the long lodge and pressed Sur Sceaf. “White Lord, I see you still find our encounter amusing. You should know, my father has little regard for men who hop from tipi to tipi. He believes any man that will betray his wife will betray his people. Out of respect for your initial kindness towards me, I have chosen not to tell him about your improper advances.” Taneshewa pointed, “When you go, the guards will need to examine you. So present yourself there at noon. My father does not look kindly upon lateness.”

  Sur Sceaf moved closer and said, “I did nothing to dishonor you. I don’t know why you are acting like a rat has bit your finger.”

  Taneshewa gave him an even colder look, bit her lower lip and said, “Perhaps I was a little rude. I wish you success in your endeavors, Lord Sur Sceaf, son of Sur Spear, but I think you should presume there will be no connection between us from now on. Keep your affections with your wife where they belong.” Then she grabbed the hand of her niece and strode off toward her other nieces with a dismissing toss of her hair.

  Going Snake gave Sur Sceaf a questioning look. “I’ve never seen Ahy so angry looking. What did you do?”

  “Frankly, I haven’t fully figured that out yet.”

  “Papa said, women are hard to figure out, and when they are angry, it’s best to go into the woods, hide, and wait until the storm passes.”

  Sur Sceaf ruffled the boy’s hair. “Your father is a very wise man, Going Snake. Tell him I will eat with him at sunset.”

  * * *

  Taneshewa led Dancing Feather into her tent by the hand with the other two nieces following. She quickly peeled out of the woolen shirt Sur Sceaf had lent her, kicked it against the tent wall with all her might, and shouted, “That damned white bastard.”

  “What’s the matter?” Blooms Alone said. “You’re acting crazy, Ahy.”

  She gritted her teeth and shook her head. “Rrrrh! I am so mad I could shred a panther in my teeth.”

  Three Doves asked, “Are you mad at us, because you have to watch us?”

  “No, no dear, I’m mad at the white man,” Taneshewa said as she slipped into a buckskin tunic, altered her voice with haughty tones and said, “The great white lord that’s visiting. He thinks he can have anything he wants. He just has to reach out and pick all the low-lying fruit as he walks down the trail of life. He brazenly flirted with me and then had the gall to casually mention his poor wife who is probably slaving over his household with a thousand brats at her feet. What nerve!”

  “Well,” Blooms Alone said, “I think he is a very handsome man.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. His looks are deceiving. He lacks integrity. He deliberately lighted the fires in me, but with no good intentions.” She sighed. “It was as if one of my dreams had come to life. As though we knew each other forever. I was almost taken in by his honeyed tongue, but the spirits revealed his true colors. He’s married, so that tells me he can only have dishonorable intentions. I’ve been down that road before with a cheating boar in rut, and I won’t walk it again.”

  Dancing Feather picked up the beaded purse with the swirling medicine wheels on it and said, “Ahy, this is so beautiful. When will it be finished?”

  “Just as soon as I find someone with white beads.”

  “Mother has plenty of white beads,” Blooms Alone said.

  “Do you think she would trade any?” Ahy asked.

  “We can go over to Mother’s tent and ask for some. That will give you some time to really kick the shit out of that shirt. Maybe rub it in stinging nettles or poison oak, if you like?”

  Taneshewa laughed. “Blooms Alone, you are a true friend, thank you.”

  As soon as her nieces left the tent she grabbed Sur Sceaf’s shirt and smacked it with her hands repeatedly while she wept, prayed, and cried out, “Why? Why, Grand Mother God, do you do this to me? Why do you let men treat women like brood mares? Why do you ignore the cries of my heart day and night? Why did you put such yearnings in my heart for this man and then rip them all away in an instant. I was so sure he was the fire swan in my dreams. Of course there was no audible answer, but she could not deny how powerful the pull on her heart-strings were when she saw the white lord. She had never laid eyes on a more handsome and well-formed man. Sagwi said to open her heart and the man that was meant for her would be openly manifest. I took her advice and it only led to more pain. Pain, Great Tah-Man-Ea, is there no end to this pain.

  After many tosses, a couple of well-placed bites to the woolen shirt, and poundings of her fists upon the ground, Taneshewa had worked out enough of her fury so that she could rejoin her nieces and work on her klackers for the pow wow.

  She gathered her materials—the doe hooves, beads, needles, and buckskin thongs—into a reed basket and joined her nieces under a large old spruce near the Silent Stream of the Unequa. There she sat on the knees of the tree, overlooking the stream, and plied her skills showing her nieces the art and answering their endless questions about the white stranger and why he had so affected her.

  * * *

  After Sur Sceaf returned to his tipi, he made preparations for the meeting by going over a scroll of points Long Swan had outlined for him to discuss with the Red King. Once he had memorized all the points, he went outside, sat on a log between his tent and Mendaka’s, and whittled a swan out of some pinewood while Going Snake trained his tri-color hound nearby. The boy dragged a ripe old coonskin on a leather string over logs and weaved it around several trees before releasing the hound.

  “Going Snake when do you think your mother will return from the lake. I had hoped to visit with her before meeting the chief.

  Going Snake frowned at his pup, which appeared to have lost the scent. “As soon as she washed Ahy’s clothes, she had Three Doves hang them up on a drying rack so she could visit Sagawi’s to get cooking herbs for the feast tonight.”

  Sur Sceaf shaded his eyes to look up at the sun. It was almost high noon. He stood and laid his whittling on the bleached log. He turned caught sight of Ahy Taneshewa making her way out of the closed flaps of the long lodge heading directly towards him. Her moccasin-shod feet beat an angry tattoo on the hard earth, and she wore a stern look on her face. As she drew near, she said coldly, “My father bids me to fetch you. Else wise I should not have come to seek your company. You are to attend him now.” She pointed to the entrance of the lodge, then did an about face and marched off.

  He stood in silence for a moment watching her graceful form storm down the path to her tipi. He smiled, If I do not lean towards my own understanding, then the Ur Fyr bids me pursue this woman. But, before I can go forward, I must discover what I did to affect Ahy this way so as to turn her heart so thoroughly against me.

  After bidding Going Snake farewell, he headed down the path to the lodge. Upon approaching, he studied the two large braves who guarded the entrance. They stood with spears, crowned with obsidian spearheads in hand. Each wore roach headdresses made of porcupine quills and grouse feathers that rose from the one strip of hair down the center of their otherwise shaven heads. Sur Sceaf noticed their muscular frames and biceps supported elaborately beaded, serpent armbands, and a fur ring of wolf hair. Numerous eagle feathers dangled from their spears denoting the many times these braves had counted coup on the Rogue Nations.

  When he neared the guards, they blocked the door with crossed spears and demanded, “Who dares to ente
r here?”

  “Lord Sur Sceaf, son of Sur Spear of the Herewardi, begs an audience with Onamingo, chief of chiefs among the Sharaka.”

  The headdresses made the braves appear even more fearsome as each one grabbed Sur Sceaf by the wrists and said in unison, “What is that?”

  “It is the grip of freedom and the way one brother receives another to first prove him true,” Sur Sceaf answered.

  The guards released Sur Sceaf’s hands. “What is that?” they asked again in unison.

  “It is the freedom one brother gives another brother as he releases him to make his own choices once he has been tested and proven true.”

  “Well done and truly said, my brother. Wait here,” said the taller of the two, “and I will return with the word of the Chief of Chiefs.” The one guard stood with his spear in hand as the other guard used a drumstick dangling from a leather thong and struck a drum hanging on a nearby post three times.

  A baritone voice, as if an ancient oak had just spoken, reverberated from within the lodge. “What is wanted?”

  The guard then entered and said, “Sur Sceaf of the Hyrwardi, who gave the proper credentials upon examination, craves an audience with Onamingo of the Sharaka.”

  “Let him enter in proper form,” the voice commanded. The guard returned, lifted the flap and said, “You may enter.”

  The guards lifted both skin flaps of the lodge. As was required, Sur Sceaf presented in proper form, genuflected, and first with his right fist, his arm in a square, he pounded his chest, then repeated with his left before approaching the chief.

  Inside the long lodge the blue smoke of fat wood veiled the large lodge poles, which stood like two rows of sentinels leading up to a large skin-covered bench, draped in cougar hides. Narrowing his gaze, Sur Sceaf made out the image of a large fierce-looking man seated atop the platform. He was dressed in a white beaded shirt that had turquoise-colored sleeves and a large black sun centered between two parallel turquoise stripes that framed his ribs from his shoulders to his waist. The Red King’s face was like aged leather, lined with the patina of experience and time, and framed by two greying braids. Like Sur Sceaf’s father, Sur Spear, this man radiated power, self-control, and great wisdom.