The Sire Sheaf

by Russ L. Howard

  Long Swan chuckled. “That’s the advantage of having six wives. At least four were there to see you off.”

  Surrey grinned. “Perhaps my adding a seventh doesn’t have as much promise as I thought.”

  “Perhaps number seven would be far more willing if she had a number eight to hold her hand.”

  Long Swan frowned. “I don’t know what it is about you Brother, but if we could bottle it no man would be without a woman in the land.”

  Surrey smiled. “If only it would work on you.”

  Mendaho caught the look of sadness settling on Long Swan’s face and took the opportunity to bid him farewell and safe journey, as she left it was apparent Ahy did not realize what a rare gift she seemed determined to reject. Silly girl. If she only knew, pride does not keep you warm at night.

  Chapter 9: Eclipse at the Elk Spirit Lake

  The pow wow was held in a large natural amphitheater of towering rocks and ancient old growth spruce, with spots of melting snow in the deep shade beneath them despite the warmth of the spring air. Everyone had gathered silently as the sun began its slow descent into the west, awaiting Thunder Horse’s pronouncement for the ceremonies to commence. Children were admonished to stay near the campfires, for although this was a sacred and holy crater, dark and malevolent skin walkers prowled in the night, creatures the Quailor called schnallygasters, who stole young children that wandered out of the safety of the campfires.

  This was the day of the Sacred Council Fire of the Elk Spirit Crater, which had been planned by Thunder Horse and Mendaka to take place during the holy eclipse, the brief time when the ancestral spirits come to converse with their posterity on earth.

  The sun continued sliding towards the day’s end as Sur Sceaf rode up to the wide mouth of the crater rim on White Fire. In honor of the Eclipse Ritual, Sur Sceaf wore his teal leather suit that was arced at the shoulders and had been fashioned by his wife, Paloma, who had done this in honor of her husband as was the tradition for those of king’s blood, who were customarily swaddled in royal green, teal, or Saxon green silk and which was worn throughout their life. The reason for which was forgotten in the Folk Mouth.

  Sur Sceaf took a moment to inhale the sharp resinous fragrance of the white barked pines, which grew in the crevices of the craggy rock formations surrounding the crater. He marveled at the silvery silhouettes of the bleached hemlock ghost trees, before raising his eyes up to the magnificent columns of the two giant hemlocks connected with a sturdy beam that would provide the staging area for the coming ring ceremonies after the council fire was lit. Despite his dislike of heights, he found himself looking forward to being raised in the rings, primarily because it was the only pretext he had for spending intimate time with Taneshewa.

  As a warrior, caution and attention to detail had been instilled in him, so he found himself looking up at the large beam that had been hoisted high and was secured from one giant hemlock to the other and fastened firmly with leather thongs. It looked sturdy enough. As in the practice rings, these three rings lay on the ground waiting to be hoisted. The larger ring was wrapped with bright orange and yellow streamers. That would be his and was known as the Sun Ring. The middle-sized ring was wrapped in green streamers and called the Earth Ring. It was Taneshewa’s. While the third and smallest ring was wrapped with silver streamers, and designated as the Moon Ring. It was Going Snake’s.

  The next day, on the cusp of the eclipse, Sur Sceaf, Taneshewa, and Going Snake would be suspended and interlocked together between Heaven and Ea-Urth. They represented the marriage of Sun, Earth, and Moon, Man, Women, and Child. The construction seemed sound. The beam seemed sturdy. All was ready.

  Below, on the periphery of the ceremonial circle, people from various tribal clans were streaming in and setting up tipis and encampments. From Sur Sceaf’s vantage point, he was able to spot Redelfis’ red hair, and saw Going Snake and Little Doe approaching with Sagwi, Taneshewa, and Mendaho, on foot. From atop the open brim of the crater, he could look down to the large open circle, in the center of which stood the ceremonial long lodge of the chief of chiefs. The entrance was oriented to the east as required by tradition.

  He’d always liked the Great Crater and had visited often when he had lived here as a youth. It was a place of peace and renewal for him. The Herewardi taught it was the hole from which flowed the energies of peace that spilled over the Ea-Urth’s surface and was one of Urth, the Norn Sister’s wells.

  After a suitable time of meditation, he found he could stare into the teal surface of the lake and receive answers to his many concerns. Once, he had even scryed the favor of the gods upon his household while staring at its mirrored surface. It was on a night that was filled with the Northern Lights, a time when the Valkyries were merry dancers in the sky above the lake, and faeries and elves filled the forests and sacred groves with songs of praise.

  He turned in his saddle and scanned the complete span of the crater containing a vast basin of indigo waters. The Crater of the Elk Spirit was a holy oracle to many peoples. Unto this end, the Herewardi had immediately secured it as their oracle upon first settling in the West. Then on orders of the Roufytrof, King Leofric had granted use of it to the Sharaka and other tribes considered friendly.

  The crater was massive and would take a whole day’s ride by horse to go around it. During the day, the waters were alive with the deepest blue in color, which sometimes appeared indigo and at other times looked teal, cerulean, or some other indescribable blend and hue of blue and green depending on the angles of the sunlight. But it was always changing and always beautiful to behold, even in the night when it became the Mirror of Heaven.

  Like the Herewardi, the Sharaka believed it was the place where First Man and First Woman had rested after they had shaped the world together and traveled its borders to establish the leaps and bounds of each nation. It was here, the Parents or the Chief Makers blessed the waters. He considered how wise it was of Onamingo to have chosen this holy spot for this vitally important pow wow.

  At the sound of someone calling his name, he turned to see Going Snake running towards him. “Hail, Sur Sceaf,” the boy shouted. “Onamingo awaits your arrival at the long lodge. I’ll groom your horse, and leave the gear in Onamingo’s tackle tent by the corrals. Oh yes, that is, if you’ll let me.”

  Sur Sceaf dismounted, handed over the reins to the eager boy, and said, “Take him away, Going Snake. I’d be honored.”

  “No need for thanks. I love this horse. Besides it’s a great honor to even be seen with him. All my friends will envy me. And someday I shall ride a stallion this noble. Remember, you promised.”

  After watching for several moments to make sure White Fire was not going to give Going Snake any trouble, and seeing the boy truly did have an affinity for horses, Sur Sceaf headed down towards the ceremonial Lodge. As he entered the throngs of people, it was apparent they were in a festive mood—laughing, chanting, and drumming.

  Young braves with painted ponies and bodies looked upon him and gave the trilling hail that is given to a mighty warrior. He knew this was the doings of Mendaka. As he passed Sagwi and Little Doe, seated outside the Council Tent of the Women, they smiled and waved. To his right as the Mountain Spirit Dancers performed their solemn dances invoking the Thunder Beings, the spectators participated from the sidelines. They were a mixed group of young and old, male and female, dancing in harmony to the rhythm of the drum beat.

  As the swirling dancers parted, he saw Taneshewa moving among them. She was wearing her white buckskin dress lined with doe hoof klackers and white ankle high moccasins. Every time he looked upon her, it seemed she had grown even more beautiful than the last, and this time she was not avoiding his eyes, but in fact, she was actually smiling and waving. His heart raced as he waved back.

  When he reached the lodge, he found Onamingo and Snake Horse outside as if waiting for him. The chief wore his ceremonial cap adorned with yellow feathers, as well as a soft brain-tanned buckskin shirt and trouse
rs. Turquoise beads ran up both arms in a line that dropped down his sides to frame the intense black sun with a teal center on his chest, a representation of the Great Crater.

  “Os-Frith, Lord Prince Sur Sceaf.”

  “Os-Frith, Onamingo, king of chiefs.” Then turning to Snake Horse, repeated the greeting.

  Onamingo took a step backward. “Do me the honor of entering first.”

  The mere fact that Onamingo bade him to enter the lodge first, signaled to all present, the preeminence Onamingo afforded to him.

  The lodge sported painted hides adorned with elk, snakes, owls, and lightning, representing the four preeminent Sharaka Clans. The dominant clans had divergent roots from many tribes of the Red Men and the Quants, or Part-Bloods, who had joined them. Blazing torches were stuck in holes drilled into the lodge poles, giving the interior a warm glow almost as bright as sunlight.

  In the core of the lodge sat a number of chiefs on tule mats surrounding a sand painting with each of the totem animals positioned at the four cardinal points. At the east was the Brazen Serpent. The black mat with a teal circle before it was empty, normally occupied by the chief of chiefs. It was to this mat that Onamingo directed Sur Sceaf to sit, which he took to be the second indicator that the Red King was deliberately placing Sur Sceaf above himself, thus commanding instant respect among all the talking chiefs present.

  His father, Sur Spear, had assured him that Onamingo was the master of diplomacy and adjured Sur Sceaf he could trust the old chief implicitly. As he took his seat on the black mat he could only surmise by the receptive looks on the faces of the assembled chiefs that Onamingo and Mendaka had softened them up by singing his praises. A process the Herewardi called ‘smoking the bees.’

  After the flap had been closed and the guards positioned, Onamingo stood at Sur Sceaf’s back and declared in his oaken voice, “Noble Chiefs of the Sharaka, I give you the Lord Prince Sur Sceaf of the Hyrwardi, the hope of our people, which we this half-moon have been discussing. We know that very soon the arms of the Evil Spirit Sanangrar, will reach here to do his devilish work on us. In times past we have fled and only after the enemy had passed did we return. But now we need a new and safer refuge, for if we stay in this land, we cannot defend ourselves against so great a force as comes so soon this way. It is a force that utterly obliterated our brothers, the Comanche down in the Taxus.

  “Sur Sceaf and the alliance that he is proposing is our surest hope of safety. He will now give you the Communiqué of the Council of Three Tribes as I promised he would. Before he does so, I wish it to be known I fully accept the terms of the communiqué which he delivers, and believe it to be the victory horse we have all been praying for.” He paused, then commanded, “Lord Prince Sur Sceaf, speak!”

  Sur Sceaf cleared his throat. Now that the time had arrived, he felt nervous, but as with any feat the initial charge can plunge one through the angst and on toward the goal.

  “Just as Onamingo said, Noble Chiefs of the Sharaka, it is my honor to receive the recommendation and confidence of the great and wise chief of the Sharaka, Onamingo. He has led this people for many years with great courage and untiring dedication to your welfare. I will do all I can to be worthy of his trust.” Sur Sceaf took a deep breath and sat straighter. “I am Sur Sceaf, son of King Sur Spear of the Herewardi and dau-son of Redith the Sharaka and Flying Wolf the Quailor, the only man to ever bear the title of king among the Quailor.” A rumble of voices sounded throughout the lodge, for many present both honored and revered Redith and the Flying Wolf. He continued, “As I am of three bloods, so also have I been appointed by the Council of Three Tribes to be the leader of the newly proposed city-state to be composed of the Sharaka, the Herewardi, and the Quailor and to be built from Gold Beach and Ur Ford to the Maiden’s Head on the Coast of the Aurvandilean Sea. As these three bloods are made one in me, so it is hoped our three tribes can act together as one. Separate, sovereign, and independent, but of one will.”

  Sur Sceaf paused, trying to gauge the reaction of the talking chiefs. Although they seemed to be listening intently, he could not read their thoughts. At least no one was frowning, which he took as a most favorable sign.

  “The communiqué that I bring you is this. It is the recommendation of the council that all three tribes go down into the safety of the Herewardi Lands and settle on the coast of the great deep from the Maiden’s Head to Mount Hrumburg by Ur Ford in the South. This decision was made based upon the increasing might of the Pitter Empire, which will soon be equal to the task of removing the Sharaka and Quailor tribes from their lands of possession, and either enslaving or destroying them in the process.”

  The chiefs looked at one another. They seemed resigned to the truth of the matter. Some even nodded their agreement.

  Feeling encouraged he continued, “Honored Chiefs, I have fought beside many of you as a Heretoga of the Fyrds of Witan Jewell. You know the might and the atrocities of the Pitters are more and more difficult to withstand with the passing of each winter. We saw it at the Battle of Frink Glen and later with the devastating Battle of Salem. If you elect to join with us and accept the recommendation of the council, you will not only enjoy far greater security, but I assure you, that you shall be granted an inheritance of land on the coast and full sovereignty and self-rule within your own tribe.” Upon spotting a puzzled look on the faces of Fat Elk and Smoking Duck, Sur Sceaf paused.

  He decided it would be best to address their concerns head on. “I see some of you may have questions. Let me lay out the council’s plan in detail first and then, I will address any concerns and questions you may have because I know this is of grave interest to you.

  “The plan of the council is that you join with me as your leader in the Herewardi stronghold. Burn all your crops, graze, and excess property so that when the Pitters come, they will have nothing to feed on, and their legions shall starve. But we shall not be idle and let them have our lands for ought. No! We shall ride out in warrior bands from the safety of the strongholds and afflict them in their over-stretched condition time and time again.

  “Meanwhile, we shall raise up and train an army of all three folks, so great that in another twenty winters, we shall hopefully, be able to utterly overrun the Pitter Empire. This I do know. It will be our last chance to defeat them. So regardless of our numbers, we will have to attack before the twentieth year. For if another bamboo bloom is allowed, they will multiply beyond our reach.” Sur Sceaf paused before adding, “That is the end of the communiqué. Now is the time for you to talk.”

  A very old chief with two yellow lightning bolts painted on his right cheek spoke first.

  “Sur Sceaf, I am Rumbling Mountain of the Cherokee. I command twenty-eight clans, a host of septs, and families numbering seven-hundred. Our branch of the Cherokee dwelt in the White Mountains among the Ndee. My people of the Lightning Clan will call you our War Chief from this day forth so that all of our spears may join as one. I have fought many battles against the Pitters since my youth. I have lost many sons, and seen more evil than any man living should ever have to witness. My clan was brought here to these mountains under the promise of Thunder Horse, that they enjoyed greater peace and greater victories against the Pitters here in the Hyrwardi Lands. I have fought beside my white brothers of the Hyrwardi in the Taxus, in Tahlequah, and even with the renegade Half-King, Lord Kanarus, in the White Mountains. I know the honor and the bravery of the Hyrwardi, but I do not know of these Quailor. It is said they do not have the will to even fight to protect their own. Yet this will not stop me from joining you. You are from this day on my chief.” He signed ‘Chief’ while the other chiefs conferred with one another in inaudible tones.

  Sur Sceaf reflected upon how many clans, septs, and families each of these talking chiefs represented, and knew from personal observation that many foreign tribes of Red Men had come to connect with the Sharaka and move into the Herewardi strongholds. Others would attempt to hold up where they were, they ranged from the Snow Men
in the North, to the Buffalo Nations surrounding the Montan and the Black Hills, to the Ndee at the White Mountains in the South.

  Sur Sceaf gave answer. “Thank you, Chief Rumbling Mountain, for your support. It is true the Quailor are not warriors, but the strength of an army does not consist alone of its warriors. That is a mistake the Pitters often repeat. The Quailor can serve our supply lines, act as nurses and doctors, and provide us with fodder and crops while we do the fighting. Those are all very critical services, which strengthen our armies more than if we were all warriors. Most important of all, is that the Quailor are incorruptible, nor will they ever betray us for golden monies or bribes such as we remember the traitor, Walker Pig, did unto us at Frink Glen.”

  Fat Elk then stood tall, looking ever fiercer in the torchlight. “I, too, have reservations about the Quailor, but they involve different matters. I have heard they are intolerant of other people’s spirit medicine. There are stories of them being unfriendly to people who don’t share in the belief of their Paper God. The god that only shows his presence in the empty words of a book is no god to me. You say they are incorruptible, but how can we trust them to cover the backs of warriors who do not share their thinking?”

  “I understand your concerns all too well, Chief Fat Elk. We have lived with the Quailor for over five hundred years. Some years were good, some were very bad, but in these crucial times, every tribe must bend to accommodate the shortcomings of the others if we are to be one against the enemy that comes. Because the Quailor remain separated from others by choice, and do not care to know us or any other people for that matter, I will sight your mind to Flying Wolf, and remind you of what a mighty warrior he, as a Quailor, became among the Sharaka.”