The Sire Sheaf

by Russ L. Howard

He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Meny, you do indeed have a beautiful spirit. I honor you for your generosity of heart.”

  She felt warm pleasure flood through her. “I’ll do my best, but, remember, there is just no way of predicting what Ahy will do. Unless lightning strikes her, she’s usually set on her course.”

  * * *

  The Lover’s Dance ended with many pairings of brave and maiden. The drums were now resting and silent. The arena was filled with excitement. Clans had gathered awaiting Thunder Horse’s pronouncements. As Sur Sceaf and Meny were threading their way through the crowd, they were almost bowled over by Going Snake who said excitedly, “Surrey, my father cannot participate in the ring and spear game tomorrow and I want to be in it. Will you act in his stead?”

  “Did you participate last year?”

  “No, I was too young then.”

  Sur Sceaf remembered when Going Snake was born and how joyous Mendaka had been as he swore to protect his newborn son all his life, just as Sur Sceaf had sworn to protect all of his own children and now to protect all the tribes. I must be a father to them. I must defend them from the grizzly Pitter Empire whose mouth is opened to swallow them.

  Sur Sceaf smiled at the boy. “Going Snake, I shall act in your father’s stead.”

  As going Snake was thanking him profusely, Redelfis came up. “There you are you little squirrel. We need to get ready for the pow wow, because the sun is almost gone down and the council fire is about to be lit.”

  After taking his leave of Meny, Sur Sceaf followed Redelfis and Going Snake to the staging area of the rings where Taneshewa and Redelfis’ crew awaited.

  Just as the sun rested on the horizon of the rim, Thunder Horse stood up with his hands above his head. When his hands dropped, then the ritual part of the pow wow would begin.

  During the time of the dancing, Thunder Horse had drawn in vivid colored sands in the dust on the ground an enormous medicine wheel with its black sun surrounding a teal center marking the crater as the place of emergence with four serpents radiating from the central rick of ritually painted black wood. Precisely at sunset the black wood would be lit while the wheel was being destroyed by the shamans. Thus it would both inaugurate the commencement of the council fire and provide a portal through which the ancient spirits could come to deliver inspiration and direction as needed. It would be a time when the people could speak to the Thunder Beings and be heard.

  As soon as the sun’s helical arc went below the horizon, Thunder Horse dropped his hands. The four spirit chiefs stationed at four cardinal points began brushing the colored sands away with their willow brooms, gradually erasing the medicine wheel altogether. Simultaneously, twelve Sharaka maidens dressed in white doeskins surrounded the wood and lit the ceremonial fire with their torches. Shamans began their chanting, and drummers pounded out the heartbeat of the Sharaka Nations. All the people stood and began dancing the Mountain Spirit Dance in honor of the First Parents.

  While the dancers were dancing, Sur Sceaf stood alone in the privacy of a shadow under a large spruce. He looked up into the streaming rays crossing the sky and prayed, Oh Woon, the Almighty Shaper of the Worlds, strengthen me to give the communiqué to these people in such a way that they will receive it in the spirit of trust, that their lives, and our lives, may all be preserved. Give me the spirit of a Thunder Being that I may deliver them from our enemy, the Pitters. Shape it so.

  As soon as the dance ended and everyone sat scattered in clusters on the ground. There came the blowing of the deer whistle, and the crowd grew silent. The people moved backwards. From the twilight dimness, Mendaka merged into the firelight like some fierce Thunder Being. He was dressed in only a loincloth and a breastplate of forty-four bone hair pipes fringed with horse hair, showing he was armored for spiritual battle. His eyes and cheekbones were painted deep red with war paint. His nose and chin were painted white. His lips were black. These were the colors of spiritual warfare. On his head he wore a fox skin. From the two front legs of the fox skin hung swan and raven feathers.

  Sur Sceaf realized that Mendaka was the very mirror image of his own spirit. As I am Herewardi on the outside and Sharaka on the inside, so is Mendaka Herewardi on the inside and Sharaka on the outside.

  The silence broke with Mendaka chanting and dancing, for now the ancestors were being invited to join their council fire. He danced a ceremonial dance alone, directing the chanting. On the sidelines the other four spirit chiefs added their chants to his. He swooped like an eagle with feather fans in each hand. With each swoop, he would come up and speak a name of one of the Seven Grandfathers starting with Tah-Man-Ea.

  Sur Sceaf considered if one did not know it, they would believe what they were witnessing was other-worldly. Mendaka’s powerful voice split the twilight air in a haunting, mystifying chant and Sur Sceaf felt as though he was entering the Spirit World, for what he was experiencing was beyond the perception of the mere senses. It was something from the Other World and the dimensions were overlapping. Mendaka’s chant ended with trilling acclamation from the multitudes of Sharaka. Sur Sceaf joined in.

  To which Mendaka walked back into the growing darkness and disappeared. A moment later Onamingo appeared in the firelight and held up both hands for quiet. When the assembly had settled down and the buzz of comment had ceased, he announced the opening of the council fire. “This council fire is now commenced. As is our custom, all may speak their hearts without any fear of retributions for anything they utter during the night of this council. So, it has always been, so it shall always be. All are equal in speech this night. Any who violate this law will be forever banished from tribe and memory, so sacred is this custom.” Onamingo adjusted his buffalo robe. “Lord Prince Sur Sceaf, being unaccustomed to the ways of the pow wow, I shall speak for him and introduce him. As you have seen this day, he sits in my seat. There is a good reason for this, which he shall reveal. But this much you know; I have never offered my seat to any other man before. Now you may know in what high esteem I value this guest, and I expect the same respect from you, whether you agree with his message or not.” Onamingo paused. “And now I shall call on the son of three bloods, the Lord Prince Sur Sceaf of the Hyrwardi, to deliver the communiqué of the Council of Three Tribes aloud for the first time to all the people and before all these talking chiefs so that your ears may hear that which has been conceived in sacred secrecy in the dark womb of the chiefs.”

  Sur Sceaf stood up and walked to the chief’s side before the mighty throng that stretched beyond his vision into the dark of the night. He took a deep breath and said, “I have wrestled long in the wilderness to seek the spirit that would give me the strength to deliver the communiqué to you in a manner that you will find acceptable. It will not be an easy thing I am asking of you. It will be a sacrifice greater than any sacrifice most of you have ever been called upon to make. But I assure you it is more than necessary. It is a critical one. By that I mean it is both necessary and essential for the survival of the Sharaka and Herewardi, as it is also for the Quailor.”

  There went up a buzz of comment such as when one lifts the top off a hive of bees.

  Sur Sceaf took a long pause until the voices faded. “It is the will of the Council of Three Tribes that the Sharaka, Herewardi, and Quailor peoples become one united people living under one tent in the land of the Herewardi. The council felt that I, being of the blood of each of the three tribes, would be the best suited to lead the successful weaving of the commonwealth of all three peoples. We know that any man may break one spear easily over his knee, but no man can hold three spears in one hand and break it so. Joined together, we will be unbreakable in the strength of the Herewardi stronghold.”

  Sur Sceaf searched the faces in the firelight to see how his message was being received. He saw only attentiveness, so he continued. “We shall obtain oneness while each tribe remains governed by its own leaders to be separate and true to your own culture. Our very oneness shall be in honoring e
ach other’s right to self-rule within inner-tribal affairs, just as each clan operates independently under their tribal leaders. But in matters of warfare we all act as one force.

  “If you choose to do nothing, then after our fyrds are withdrawn into the safety of our strongholds, the legions of the Pitters will be unrestrained in subduing, enslaving, and destroying all you hold sacred. The Pitters rule the East, and it’s because they conquered one tribe at a time and subdued them. Now they are sending untold numbers of legions to do the same to us. The only way to survive the crushing might of those legions is to gather into the Herewardi Lands as they are the most defensible with ample barriers, resources, and forts for safety. Then we shall beat the Pitters when they come, for they will come!”

  Sur Sceaf was interrupted by the stirring of the crowd. A young man pushed into the firelight. He was one of the ruffians Sur Sceaf had encountered on the trail. The one Thunder Horse called Pock Face.

  The young brave declared in a shrill and defiant voice, “It would be foolish to believe we could stand against the Pitter might even if we went to the safety of Herewardi Lands. Yes, they will impose their rule over us, but we can pay them their due and they will suffer us to live on in peace in our own lands just as the Zonga of Eugeners do.”

  Sur Sceaf smiled. “It is true that you could choose to pay tribute and hope that is all they ask. But the Eugeners can tell you that your Pitter masters shall not give you the peace you seek. Methinks you have forgotten they have wolf and rat blood in their seed code, and they were bred for destruction, not peaceful coexistence. We have heard it from the tribes in the Eastern Lands, the Herewardi spies have told us that the Pitters are like a cuckoo bird, who will come to lay their eggs in your nest. Then by and by, they shall kick your children out of the nest, and take possession of all that was once yours. They appear to be human, but like the rat and the wolf, share none of our capacity for love, compassion, or warmth. Slowly and sadly, the Eugeners are coming to realize this. You need only ask the peoples who are refugees amongst us. I am certain that they will testify that such appeasement as you are suggesting did not and cannot work.”

  “Here, here!” shouted more than one voice from the crowd. “Sur Sceaf, is right,” shouted another. “Before I escaped they had killed all of my family.”

  A large brave attired in traditional Apache garb stood up commanding instant attention. “I, Mesculera Coloratus, of the Chiricahua Nation have long fought the Pitter hell-rats. This pock-faced boy is of too few winters to know the true nature of this enemy,” he said in a deep rumbling voice turning to motion at Pock Face, who still stood impudently by.

  Pock Face started to protest when he was struck silent by a sharp glance from Mesculera. “They will take and take and take. What you see as paying them their due, they see as cowardly weakness. There is no language they honor but submission. We, the Apache, saw the Comanche Tribe utterly deflowered, their braves rendered impotent, and enslaved after paying all they had. The same fate will one day be visited upon the Eugeners. I mourn with the Comanche refugee who just bore his testimony as a dire warning to us all. As the Great Spirit is my witness, I proclaim as long as I draw breath, my family shall not suffer such a fate. We will never submit.” Mesculera, raised a fist, threw back his head, and sent the Apache War Cry to the Heavens. As he resumed his place, a stunned silence fell over the assemblage.

  Sur Sceaf stood tall and spoke loud and clear. “Thank you Chief Mesculera, we too, grieve for the loss of the Comanche. They were once noble allies to the Herewardi during our long sojourn in the Taxus Lands.”

  Sur Sceaf noticed Pock Face slinking back into the crowd and stifled a smile. “I share Mesculera’s vow to fight to the death for our loved ones. But if our plan succeeds, the foul Pitter rats will feel the edge of our blades, tomahawks, and spears until we drench the Ea-Urth with their contaminated blood.” A roar arose from the crowd led by Mendaka and Mesculera, who once again gave the Apache War Cry.

  After a moment, Sur Sceaf held his hands up for silence. “Now I will tell you how we shall foil these denizens of the Evil Empire. As I have witnessed, they will be coming with mighty armies so numerous that they would make the trees of this forest seem few in comparison. Now, as any warrior knows all too well, an army has got to eat in order to move. The council has determined we shall leave these indefensible lands, burn our crops, including forage for their horses, and scorch the lands of anything they might find useful. This very act shall leave them with starving armies and no way to feed them. That gives them two choices: leave our lands in search of sustenance or import agricultural laborers whom they must use their manpower to control, thus forcing them to further dilute their power. They are not hunters, nor are they farmers, they are raiders, and their many zongas are too far off to supply their needs adequately.”

  An elderly brave with a deep scar across his cheek who Sur Sceaf recognized as Counting Bird, brother of Dancing Rabbit, said, “If they leave, we can return?”

  “With respect, Counting Bird, they will not leave. They are driven by a compulsion to annihilate the Herewardi and our allies. They shall never retract their armies once they have sent them out, for to do such would be conceding defeat and they cannot admit to such. Their religion forbids such admission except there be an emperor’s decree. Their god mandates that unless they are victorious they will go down to Hell in defeat.”

  Mendaka rose to the occasion, “All war plans must be re-written in the field. Anyone who sticks to a plan without adjusting to the field is destined to failure.”

  “Fortunately,” Sur Sceaf said, “we have found this to be a fatal flaw which the enemy possesses and one we intend to exploit. This scorched policy will disrupt their battle plans and will buy us the time we need to raise up an army, sufficient in might and strength to defeat them. Remember all Pitters are not only vicious, but also without conscience. Just ask the old ones who have experienced the enemy’s labor camps and their fiendish tortures. Until we are ready to launch a full offensive we can continue to cut at their roots and weaken this evil tree by our raids. Like all diseased trees, it will collapse under its own weight and the mighty wind we will raise up against them.”

  Counting Bird inquired, “Just how long will that take? Will I live to see our victory?”

  “Methinks you have many good years ahead of you, Counting Bird. The Roufytrof has estimated it shall take between fifteen to twenty winters to raise up a mighty generation, after which it would be too late. The Roufytrof conjectured that it would take this long to raise up a generation of warriors sufficient in numbers and training to engage the Pitter Empire in their core and most certainly must come before the next bamboo bloom accelerates their population explosion.”

  From the corner of his view, Sur Sceaf spotted Standing Bull at the edge of the crowd, whispering something into Pock Face’s ear. Pock Face nodded, then stepped forward once again to challenge, “Only cowards would leave the lands we cherish. We shall never leave our lands, and those who still have dignity shall never go to live among the Hyrwardi. For us, no white man should ever sit on the black mat.”

  Along with the buzz of comments, Sur Sceaf felt his temper rise, but managed to keep his voice calm as he declared, “I am humbled to admit before all these great chiefs here assembled that I have been chosen for that commission which Onamingo has made clear. It is a terrible responsibility, which I shall not be doing alone, for I shall have Onamingo, Thunder Horse, and Mendaka as my counselors. One of the reasons that I had been so chosen is as I have said before; I am of three bloods, so I am able to identify with all peoples. I have lived and fought with the Sharaka, and I have lived among the Quailor, and know them well. Finally, I have been a fyrd heretoga or commander for sixteen years among the Herewardi and have counted hundreds of victories against the Pitters. I could not walk away from this commission out of respect for my ancestors. Nor could I reject the choice from the leaders of tribes that I should be their chief of chiefs. It is my goal to
develop total security for all the peoples of the three tribes without fear or favor. I plead with you to take all this into consideration and listen to the spirits of your ancestors before making your choice. Shape it so.”

  Mendaka jumped to his feet and began trilling in support as cluster after cluster arose and joined, until the entire amphitheater resonated.

  After a moment, Onamingo, standing tall in his buffalo robe, stepped forward. A hush of respect fell over the assemblage. His voice was strong and compelling as he declared firmly, “You have heard the recommendation of the Council of Three Tribes. From your own experiences you know the Pitters will soon overpower us with their legions. I have addressed these issues for the past half-moon with your chiefs in the long lodge and all have added their voices of approval. Will you, people of the Sharaka Tribe, follow the council, to gather in the lands of the Herewardi Stronghold of Witan Jewell under the wing of King Sur Spear and the mighty fyrds of the Hyrwardi? Will you agree to scorch the earth of all our excess possessions in order to force a delay in the Pitter advance?” Onamingo paused to let the assemblage ponder his question before signing. ‘Listen carefully,’ he waited till he had the attention of all, then declared, “A final battle has long been prophesied by the shamans and seers of all peoples I know of. Even the Pitter’s evil high priests—the Skull Worm, Katus, and Sanangrar, have all prophesied this great and dreadful day. It is for us to determine the outcome of that final battle. We do nothing without the Council of Women and the voice of the people. So it is up to you, the people, to sustain whom the chiefs have chosen or put forth another chief. But I must tell you, I have wept in the dark for you, my people. Personally, my only hope rests with Sur Sceaf of the Three Bloods. He is our victory horse. I give the recommendation of the Council Fire of Chiefs that we give Sur Sceaf our full-hearted support. Speak with one another. I know this is not an easy decision to leave your beloved lands and homes. I, too, share your sorrow. Tomorrow we will surely hear your counsel on this matter and vote with our feet for the final choice.”