"When it is cold, wear a thick robe even if it itches. So must life be lived, for there must be discomfort if life is to be filled with satisfaction.
"To pretend that the whites have not appeared or to believe that they will suddenly depart for other forests is foolish. I have chosen to don the itchy robe of the whites, but to also cherish the best of our Delaware teachings. In this way, I have a foot in each camp, and the life of Quehana has become fruitful with comforts for my woman and my children."
For a moment longer they looked across the valley of Quehana, then the Arrowmaker led them swiftly downhill. He called over his shoulder to the scurrying youth.
"We will loosen our bodies on this easy run. Then we will soak in the sweat lodge and consider the thoughts I have laid before you."
Easy run? Young-Son's legs pumped furiously, and before they reached the pond to walk the final distance, he feared his body would disgrace him and that he would collapse in Quehana's tracks.
The sweat lodge was placed beside the pond's outlet where water could be easily reached. Tightly sewed, the lodge walls would retain the inside heat, and Young-Son noted with interest that in a nearby fire fist-sized stones were glowing hot, and that the lodge had a small entrance through which the hot stones could be passed without disturbing the lodge's occupants.
Quehana shed his moccasins and loincloth. Young-Son did the same and followed the massive fighter into the sodden heat of the sweat lodge.
They sat on flattened logs that were hot to their behinds, and Quehana poured water from a gourd onto heated stones already in place. Steam rose in a thick cloud fully enveloping them. The walls dripped, and the humid air was sucked into their lungs quickening the sweat that would run from them in streams.
Quehana chose a pair of sharp edged sticks and explained how once the sweat ran the skin could be scraped clean using the almost cutting edge of the wood.
Young-Son followed Quehana's example, choosing first an arm before scraping clean his entire body. The heat was stifling, but they were barely started before Flat's arm reached through a small opening and hotter stones were added to their pile. Quehana immediately poured water, and the steam thickened until breathing was difficult.
Even as they finished scraping, the opening was again occupied. This time, the squaw offered a pair of clay pipes, filled and already lighted.
Quehana’s was clearly the pipe with the bowl shaped like an arrowpoint. Young-Son's was more ordinary, but the clay used was white, and in his wearied and nearly mesmerized state the boy considered even the coloring somehow special.
Quehana drew in smoke, and Young-Son, who had only rarely smoked, attempted the same. Bitter was the kinnikinnick of Quehana. It instantly dried the throat, but Quehana held his smoke long before allowing the dregs to filter forth, so Young-Son again followed.
Rob watched the youth suck in the special tobacco. Flat had prepared the pipes carefully, and where Rob's held ordinary white man's tobacco, Young-Son's was filled with a mixture that was mostly the long leaves that twisted time and caused confusion. Those leaves dried and crumpled into bits that would light well were often used by shamans to induce strange dreams and imaginings. Rob’s plan needed similar advantage.
Rob Shatto did not really inhale the smoke of his own pipe. He held the smoke in his throat until it settled, but he could see that Young-Son was breathing deeply, and that would quickly weaken his awareness. Quehana watched for the signs.
Occasionally, Rob conversed with the youth, and when Young-Son’s voice rose into a squeak and his face seemed to smile more than it should, Rob began his talk.
Quehana spoke of important things, and they each laid aside their pipes to better concentrate. Young-Son had noticed the expressiveness of Quehana’s gestures, and he found the teacher's movements rhythmic and unusually interesting.
Quehana again spoke of how it was to become a man. He discussed how strong names were discovered and how names gave direction to life and importance to their owners. The voice of Quehana was mesmerizing, and Young-Son felt his eyes drooping.
The thunder of an approaching storm touched his senses only a few instances before there came to the ears of Young-Son a rumble of laughter, a chuckle perhaps, of manly humor that somehow raised the hackles along Young-Son's neck.
The words of Quehana rolled on, but just as the attention of Young-Son returned, the laughter resumed, and this time it was powerful with rage and hatred, and an almost maniacal abandon. The mind of Young-Son jerked awake. His eyes sought Quehana, but the killer spoke on as if he did not hear.
The boy shook his head, attempting to clear away the effects of the smoke, but his senses reeled even as a great voice from somewhere beyond the lodge spoke words of power that reached into the memory of Young-Son.
The boy knew the voice. He had no doubt, for it had lived within his soul for all of his days. The voice, terrible to hear, but glorious to know said, "It is time, Young-Son. It is time."
The Warrior! Young-Son knew as surely as he sat with Quehana. The boy's soul lurched and his mind struggled. He wished to demand from Quehana that he too heard the voice of The Warrior, but he feared to break the spell.
The Warrior again spoke, but this time there was only a single word. "Ironhawk." An instant later thunder again rolled, and the boy heard no more.
Young-Son forced his voice to speak. "Quehana, did you hear a voice?"
Quehana seemed surprised. "I heard thunder, Young-Son. There is a storm approaching. Perhaps it will rain."
How could he not have heard? The words and the voice were clear to Young-Son, and even as he pondered and Quehana talked on, the mighty voice came again. This time from far away, but with a power that shook the body of Young-Son, and he knew the world had to hear.
"Ironhawk." The voice commanded and called. "Ironhawk, stand forth." There followed a scream of the warpath so maniacal that it tore all other awareness from the mind of Young-Son. His body froze in place and his vision blurred. He expected the raging form of The Warrior to burst through the lodge entrance, hatchets bared, the hunger to kill flooding his mind, but there was no more.
Quehana seemed to meditate, lost in his own thoughts, but Young-Son could not wait.
"Quehana, did you hear the war cry?"
"The smoke has reached your mind, Young-Son. Ignore it." Quehana resumed his thinking.
Young-Son knew what he had heard. He swept aside the lodge closure eyes staring, but there was nothing to see. Flat poked at fire stones and Blue Moccasin worked at softening new footwear. Neither looked up from his work. Clearly they had heard nothing. Bewildered, the boy returned to his place in the lodge.
Flat had again added hot stones before Quehana spoke.
"Draw on your pipe, son of Tree Shadow, and consider thoughts that have appeared within the mind of Quehana."
Young-Son drew powerfully, felt his senses whirl, and attempted to discount the sky-filling voice he had heard. Did The Warrior call Quehana Ironhawk, and did he order him forth? Or was the voice meant only for the ears of Young-Son? The mind of the boy staggered at the implication.
They smoked for moments before the Arrowmaker resumed the talk.
"A name has been driven like a spear into my mind, Young-Son. Its source is unknown, but its presence is like a burning brand. Why it should appear was mystery, but I have pondered its meaning, and now Quehana is prepared to explain."
Young-Son dared not believe, but his heart knew the name that Quehana would speak, and the pounding within his chest seemed about to burst his ribs.
When he continued, Quehana's voice was deep and rich with feeling. His words fell like boulders upon the mind of Young-Son, and their impact created shivers that twitched his skin and entwined his fingers.
"A voice of power has spoken within the mind of Quehana. It is a familiar voice, but Quehana has not been allowed to recognize its speaker. That too is strange because the voice is mighty beyond all other voices Quehana has heard, and it is almost as thoug
h a brother was speaking . . . But still the speaker remains unknown."
Young-Son's throat clogged with the hunger to explain that he knew who had spoken, but it was not his place to interrupt.
"The voice of great power spoke only a single word. That word was "Ironhawk."
Quehana's head nodded in agreement with his explanation, and his thick braids moved against his chest.
"Truly, the words were spoken as one, as if the two parts were inseparable. Until now, Quehana has not heard the word Ironhawk, and he has struggled to understand the meaning of the voice that spoke it."
Quehana's eyes lifted to meet those of Young-Son.
"It is rare that those who have gone before speak to those who remain. It is said that the seer Late Star speaks with the old ones, and once a great shaman called Cloud Watcher predicted the future from conversations with the honored dead."
Quehana's shrug was eloquent. "But, The Warrior killed Cloud Watcher and hung his body from a tree.
"Quehana has known others who have heard honored voices. On the mountain where the Big Buffalo Creek joins the river Juniata once lived a Shawnee woman, Oonasa, who carried messages from the dead, but never before has a voice spoken within the mind of Quehana.
"Such a voice must be listened to, Young-Son, and its words must be understood and their meaning must become one with the spirit and soul of whoever knows of them."
Quehana smoked, but the enthralled youth could only wait.
"So, the vision has come clear in the mind of Quehana, and it is good.
"So, Quehana has seen the path, and he understands what is to be done.
"So, Quehana speaks to the son of Tree Shadow who is to become a part of the word from the voice of power."
Quehana straightened from his comfortable lounging, and without awareness, Young-Son also sat tall with his hands gripping his knees in tension.
"To the mind of Quehana has come the name Ironhawk. It has also come to the mind of Quehana that the youth known to us as Young-Son is to become Ironhawk of the Delaware."
From the sky beyond the valley of the Little Buffalo, the mighty voice of The Warrior again spoke. "Ironhawk," and the word rolled as if it were the whisper of a giant wind across the valley and echoed through the dazed mind of Young-Son. Goose bumps rose on the skin of Young-Son, but this time he was not surprised that Quehana did not hear because Young-Son knew now that the voice spoke only to him.
Quehana's words were also deep with emotion and charged with meaning. "So, it is the duty of Quehana to remove the child's name of Young-Son and to mark him forever as Ironhawk of the Delaware.
"Powerful words must be spoken that will change forever the heart of he who was Young-Son, and the mark of Ironhawk must be placed upon the body of the son of Tree Shadow. These will be the tasks of Quehana."
The Arrowmaker's eyes turned to freeze those of Young-Son's.
"The youth now called Young-Son must agree to this ceremony and the changes that must follow. If he does not wish it to be so, there can be no naming, for receiving a second name can be of great meaning, and to gain a name from the spirit world is without comparison."
Quehana waited for an answer, but Young-Son found his voice had dried, and he could only nod agreement.
The Arrowmaker sighed, and his body relaxed into normal comfort.
"Then so it shall be, son of Tree Shadow. You will wash yourself in the creek and you will dry with your hands. When it is again light, Quehana will prepare the iron and the words that will mark you forever as Ironhawk.
His senses reeling, Young-Son staggered from the sweat lodge and plunged beneath the surface of Quehana's pond. Some of his confusion was from the smoke he suspected, and he fought to clear his mind because he wished to be at his best when Quehana called him to stand forth for his naming.
Wrapped in his single blanket against the night chill, Young-Son tried to imagine the excitements the morning would bring. He, the youngest son of Tree Shadow was to be honored by Quehana of the Delaware, and the voice from the skies . . . Young son felt tears at his eye comers, and his body trembled in anticipation of what was to come.
Terror that he might be found wanting in whatever trials were demanded weakened his spirit and turned him fearful. He spoke to the Great Spirit asking that he be granted special strengths that would allow him to endure and encourage the heroes to respect him as a son of the lodge of Tree Shadow.
Still listening for the powerful rumble of The Warrior's voice repeating the name Ironhawk, Young-Son fell into sleep.
He again slept heavily, and he woke to the clanging of iron from Quehana's hammer. He washed sleep from his eyes, and found Flat at the outside fire with food even different from the strange tastes of the night before.
If Quehana had already scouted, it remained unmentioned. Blue Moccasin was busy with an older white who worked in the fields of Quehana, and Young-Son marveled that men would choose the dull repetitive work of squaws.
As he remained uninvited, Young-Son avoided the place of iron making where Quehana created loud noises and contented himself with observing the activities of the children of Quehana.
To Young-Son's amusement, he saw that the children divided themselves into sides, one of which was clearly Indian and was distinguished by chicken feathers in their head bands. The other group appeared to be soldiers who with stick guns and loud mouth noises defeated the Indians in each battle.
Young-Son was amused because in his games the Indians, Delaware of course, were always victorious.
The sun was high before Quehana came to their fire. He had announcements that he made to Young-Son, and the youth found his anxiety return. Soon, his testing would begin, and he felt desperately ill-prepared.
"For this ceremony we will ask the assistance of the honored message carrier, Blue Moccasin, for it has come to my mind that he is a part of your naming."
Young-Son understood what Quehana did not. The mighty voice had come from the sky, and could mean only that The Warrior was no longer among them. The Warrior now traveled with those who trod the Great Spirit's final path, and from his place among the honored fathers, The Warrior would wish that Blue Moccasin, his friend of many trails, be a part of the naming.
Great was the honor to be bestowed upon Young-Son of the lodge of Tree Shadow. Together, the mighty Quehana, killer of Shawnee and Blue Moccasin companion of The Warrior would grant him a name chosen by The Warrior himself.
At his forge, Rob had pounded on iron and clashed his hammer against a vertical saw blade hung from a rafter.
Blue Moccasin covered his ears in protest. "The boy is properly impressed, Quehana. Spare us the iron noises."
Rob pounded a few more times before he spoke in English. "He must believe that I am doing something important, Blue." Rob again clanged on the saw blade.
Blue Moccasin chuckled through the fading ring of metal upon metal. "Flat was dancing around like a young girl signaling me when to rumble like The Warrior would have. How did it sound inside?"
Rob was willing to grant compliments because Blue Moccasin's imitating was as perfect as he could have imagined.
"Blue, when you first spoke I swear that I could feel The Warrior's presence. Pin pricks started all over me. You should have seen Young-Son's expressions. No voice could have thrilled him more. He would rather have heard from The Warrior than from The Great Spirit himself."
Shatto shook his head in admiration. "I guess imitating comes easy to you, and it makes clear why you were the most honored of message carriers, but I will never understand how you can become the person you are imitating. It is a remarkable talent, Blue."
Blue Moccasin preened under the compliments. "And how was the war cry, Quehana?"
Blue held his ears as Rob pounded before answering.
"I've been working on that cry ever since you first let me hear it, but I cannot hold a candle to the sound you let out. Blue, that screech would paralyze a war party. No wonder The Warrior killed so many enemy. I doubt an
y of 'em could move before it was too late."
Blue's answer was earnest and without amusement. "In battle, The Warrior approached madness, Rob, and his war cry was filled with an abandon that announced death to any who stood against him. That terrible raging is difficult to capture, but the sound is more effective than any other I have ever heard."
"Well, it turned my belly cold even when I knew it was you, and Young-Son became stone. Your timing was just right, too, Blue, but I can't explain how you managed to pull in a thunder storm at just the right moment."
Blue Moccasin appeared bemused. "I would like to claim I arranged for that as well, Rob, but even a gullible woodsy like you would not believe such a yarn."
The message carrier appeared to consider for another moment. "When that thunder rumbled at just the right time, I wondered myself if perhaps The Warrior did not have a hand in what we are attempting."
Blue chuckled at his own conjecture and added, "Of course as an educated citizen of the city of Philadelphia I am really above such barbaric speculations."
Rob drew an iron handled tomahawk from its place behind a beam. "How does this strike you?" He handed the weapon to Blue Moccasin.
As Blue hefted the dark-metaled hatchet and considered it carefully, Rob offered his reasoning.
"You'll note that the head is smaller than usual and that the usual point or blunt end is shaped like a hawk's head."
Blue's voice was sardonic. "I did manage to notice those details, Rob."
Shatto was undeterred. "Based on what Tree Shadow told me, I figure this boy is not going to grow really large, and carrying a full sized war hatchet around is not all that practical for anyone. The iron handle adds weight, and it will never have to be replaced It is slender enough to fit his grip even now when he is only half grown."
Blue Moccasin let his appreciation show.
"Do you realize what a gift like this is to a Delaware youth, Rob? Seasoned fighters would give all they possess to own such a tool." Blue studied the hammered-out weapon.
"What you must do, Quehana, is make me a similar hawk and I will have my smiths in the city pound out dozens of them. I could trade such a weapon for more beaver than a hatful of gunpowder would bring."
Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6) Page 7