Late Star suspected that what Cloud Watcher had seen was death but he did not say so. The Warrior was the truest of believers and doubts were not needed. It was enough that he had destroyed the medicine of Cloud Watcher. He would study the vision seen by Cloud Watcher, but he doubted that The Warrior was to be a leader of nations. Too alone stood The Warrior. Disdainful of power over others, he would not lead.
Late Star brooded within his robes, searching his mind for what the future might really hold.
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Chapter 17: Age 28
The words of Cloud Watcher did not die with his strangled and frozen body. They lingered among the small chiefs of the Iroquois and festered within the minds of more than a few. Jealous of their powers and proud in their authorities, the rise of a fighter of awesome abilities threatened them. None chose to openly address the challenge that The Warrior might rally independent clans and seek leadership, but there were other ways to destroy the possibility.
A leader of an Owl clan broached the subject at an important council among the Onondaga and it was eagerly seized.
"Great was the strength of our nephew, The Warrior, in defeating the Chippewa, Cloud Watcher."
A Wolf answered, "None can stand before The Warrior. He devours them as a dog gulps leavings." There was thoughtful silence as pipes were smoked, for the words had many ramifications.
"There are many battles in many places. Perhaps The Warrior should see more of them. His strength in battle should not be wasted." Again there was thought, for combats would surely bring added respect as well as the possibilities of death—which would end the problem.
Another thought was spoken. "The Huron are a thorn to The Nations. Too often they cross the lake to strike without warning. None are more fierce and to fight them one must go among them."
There was acclaim, for in so doing The Warrior would be gone from them, and to bring the haughty Huron to council was as improbable as halting the sun.
Of course, none spoke such thoughts. Instead, they used terms of "great honor" and "brave combats" mingled with "service to his people" and "many coups bright with courage." A sense of relieved accomplishment suffused the council of small chiefs, for a difficulty had been neatly turned and they felt more secure.
Almost as the great lake thawed, The Warrior appeared among them. Those who had not seen him were awed, and only the most confident were not lessened by his presence. Too strong was his body and too cold was his eye. He spoke few words but his voice chilled listeners with its implacable force.
He did not come alone, for at his side paced the slender form of the message carrier called Blue Moccasin. Alert and knowing were the eyes of Blue Moccasin, and those planning to use The Warrior polished their words. The message carrier had placed himself at The Warrior's shoulder and none dared challenge his presence. To persuade the fighter was an easy thing. All knew that The Warrior believed The Great Spirit stood with him and that his honor demanded even the greatest sacrifice. Blue Moccasin confused the reasonings, for at this time his allegiance appeared bound to his companion, and his counsel might raise doubts in the mind of The Warrior.
The lodge of meeting grew thick with the smoke of tobacco, and a few gulped at a small keg of firewater traded from the whites. Though guns lay among the spears and war clubs, the tomahawks gleaming at The Warrior's waist drew attention. Unlike the feathered and painted weapons of the others, the metal and hickory of the tomahawks lacked ornamentation. They were weapons for killing not for showing, and without exception, the counselors' thoughts passed across the tales told of the tomahawks in battle.
Expressionless, The Warrior waited, sharing neither pipe nor conversation, while at his shoulder the clever, blue-eyed messenger seemed ready to whisper thoughts into a painted ear. War scars patterned The Warrior's weather-darkened skin. Most were old scars with colorless edges, but a few held the redness of newer wounds, reminding that one among them still found their enemies and dealt with them.
The small chiefs were uncomfortable with all of this, but the plan had begun, and The Warrior would be hurled against the Huron. What could a single fighter do against a nation so powerful that they tested Iroquois borders? The Warrior must be made to believe his strengths could turn the Hurons in other directions. The counseling began.
Long were the tales of Huron atrocities against the Iroquois people. To list them, the speakers reached deep into honored tales so ancient none living recalled the acts.
Imaginative were the explanations of how The Warrior with cunning and ferocity, could chill the hearts of the Hurons without drawing the confederacy into war—the way strong war parties surely would.
Brave were the descriptions of The Warrior's certain success and many were the promises of honors, and feathers, and even red-blanketed maidens upon his return. If Blue Moccasin suspected the council's motives, he gave no indication and appeared only interested, as befitted his youth and position.
As though of stone, The Warrior waited through the speeches. If his eyes moved to them, none could meet their straightness and they looked away to the speaker or into the coals of their fire.
When The Warrior spoke, his words were innocent of guile, and their clarity ate the guts of the schemers.
"Is it right that I go among the Hurons? Each must answer, so that I know it is so."
One after the other, the chiefs nodded; all except a Seneca, who left the circle and was heard vomiting his self-contempt.
The Warrior's eyes sought the soul of each, but they were experienced liars and if their spirits shrank and their hearts cried, none betrayed it.
Shortly, The Warrior nodded acceptance. "Then it is done." He rose as lithely as the slender Blue Moccasin, and the lodge flap closed behind them.
A long silence was broken by one who said, "It is the best way." Each grunted agreement, expunging his betrayal in the others' acceptance.
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With the first thaw Blue Moccasin had returned to the mountains. He came like a beam of warm sun, opening hearts that had closed with the tragedies of the winter sickness. His spirit lifted them as he told of other places, and they began again to think of planting and repairing the winter ravages. Laughter was heard among the young, and the old, who had known many deaths ceased looking to their own and resumed instructing and castigating the younger, who they knew would never learn.
The village on the Buffalo Creek was little occupied and both Late Star and Large Fish vowed it was their last summer at the fishing place. Too rich were the memories and too lacking was the present. Both would go elsewhere and their families would follow. Already whites were just beyond the Susquehanna, and the land between the mountains was experiencing white squatters chopping and building their lodges of tree trunks along many creeks. It was thought that The Warrior might remove them when he returned, but messengers requiring his presence arrived from distant Iroquois chiefs, and it appeared that he would not have time.
Where he had been a boy, Blue Moccasin was now a man, but his spirit was as lively as before and his brashness undimmed. At first sight, he leaped upon The Warrior's mighty frame with a whoop of pleased greeting and attempted to rain friendly blows while held at arm's length, free of the ground.
When The Warrior's stone-like features creased in smile, watchers thrilled. Since the death of Pond Lily nothing had reached him. Still later, Blue Moccasin was seen to place a friendly hand on The Warrior's thickly muscled shoulder, and at this they also marveled for none dared such familiarity.
They ate at the fire of Late Star, and Blue Moccasin considered the changes in all of them. Late Star was old and crackly. His voice had become thin and reedy, and except when describing the winter's plague he tended to drift away into worlds of his own. Late Star, Blue expected, would not be with them much longer.
How long had he been gone from the mountains? Seven years? Seven years with his white side and only occasional escapes to his mother's people. Diligently he had pursued the learning thrust upon him and
knew that he was tempted by civilization's challenges, but for now, he hungered to sniff again the rich scents of the lodges, to talk of the hunts, to listen to honored tales, to see those of his red side whom he cared most for.
Highest of all, he held The Warrior. In the white world, there were none like him; within the Iroquois nations, none approached him. When he spoke of The Warrior to his father and his white friends they shook heads in wonder, but they did not really believe and could not understand. To them, The Warrior's search for honor was unappreciated, his regimen of exercise seemed only fanatical, and his many combats were undoubtedly exaggerated, and were comparable to the brawlings of their own uncultured element. They greatly preferred safer talk, of trading, exchange rates, and land speculations.
The Warrior too had changed. Physically he was much the same, though perhaps more powerful and larger in size. That perception could be from absence, but the bitter aura that enveloped him did exist and it held others away.
Beneath the contrasting paint, hard lines had replaced the smooth features of youth, and the scars of combat explained their appearance. One did not fight to the death without desperate effort, and even the little skilled struck blows with sharpened blades. The skin of The Warrior seemed a latticework of healed wounds. Though few marked his legs, many lined his arms and body. Not a few were struck from behind and indicated fighting with more than one. None were debilitating, and only a few distorted the thick muscle that had absorbed slash or blow. The untold tales that lay behind the wounds reeled the mind of Blue Moccasin. While he had read Latin, The Warrior had killed enemies. In comparison, the language lay truly dead, while The Warrior lived vitally with marks of courage tracing his body.
Yet The Warrior fought his battles then waited between them as friendless as an aged buffalo bull cast from his herd. Excepting Pond Lily, none had touched him. Acerbic Late Star might care, but he could not be one with his student. Respected was The Warrior, admired, but from a distance. Only small children slipped through his guard and . . . he, Blue Moccasin. Whether The Warrior felt the aloneness was uncertain for his emotions were locked tightly within, and his flinty countenance revealed little.
The ease with which The Warrior spoke of The Great Spirit unnerved Blue Moccasin. The Warrior had received signs from The Sky Father and had on occasion heard his voice. He in turn spoke often to The Great Spirit, as though the creator of all things listened and stood close-by.
Aware of great civilizations past and present, Blue Moccasin feared The Warrior's simple and certain beliefs. Gods, if there were any, did not talk with men; his white side knew that. Yet here was The Warrior, directed by voices and visions that led him to risk all for a most elusive goal: honor for his people. The Delaware in Blue Moccasin thrilled with it more strongly than his James Cummens side rejected it. Bright was the spirit and the honor of The Warrior, and for a little time at least, he, Blue Moccasin, would share it.
They traveled north, the quick legs of the message carrier matching the tireless stride of The Warrior. For The Warrior, the call to the great lake was important, for between the heart of the Iroquois Confederacy and the empty lands along the Juniata lay hands of clans with their warrior societies eager in waiting. That he was called gave honor, and The Warrior answered without hesitation.
That The Warrior was known by those who led, raised the eyebrows of Blue Moccasin. Their call creased his brow and the brow of Late Star. They spoke of it and, for once, with some agreement.
"One should wonder what great task requires my nephew's skills. Many beat their feet and wave weapons much closer." Star's voice was whiny with suspicions.
"Strange is the call. Old Father; could they wish to grant him special honors or to give thoughts to their councils?"
"Humph, seekers of power accept honors; they do not give them. Thoughts in council? Each waits only for another's silence to babble his own words until breath fails. No, there are reasons we do not see."
Later, words of Late Star lingered in the mind of Blue Moccasin. At the lake council they loomed suddenly thick with meaning, and they easily explained the calling.
Late Star had said, "The Chippewa, Cloud Watcher, feared that The Warrior would one day lead the Iroquois nations against them. Those who know may laugh and strike a leg because The Warrior does not lead. He may accompany, but even then he is as alone as the eagle. Perhaps the fears of Cloud Watcher reach the jealous and fearful among the Iroquois and they plan bad things for my nephew."
Then, Blue Moccasin had doubted and barely remembered, but wise had been the thoughts of Late Star. The wish of the small chieftains was plain.
They had taken meat before entering the lake village and, in exchange, had accepted shelter within a poor lodge where the hunters were few and the children many.
From the council of chiefs The Warrior strode silently to their sleeping place forcing Blue Moccasin to hurry to keep pace. Wordlessly they sank into their places at the lodge fire, and a squaw came quickly. Blue Moccasin waved her away and after a moment chose to speak in Delaware so that others would not understand. His words were blunt; there was no room for evasion.
"Their tongues were split, oh Warrior. The chiefs wore two faces."
The Warrior's eyes were cold in meeting his friend's. "I heard and I saw, Blue Moccasin.
"Then The Warrior knows that the chiefs expect his death."
"Their plan is as foolish as their words are false, Blue Moccasin. There could be no chance that a single warrior might turn away a nation of fighters. They speak as though I were a child unable to reason."
"They are afraid, oh Warrior, and they speak to each other until they almost believe and expect others to believe also." He grinned, "Did you hear the Seneca gagging beyond the lodge? He could not hold the lies, yet the others continued until it was said. They are without honor, my friend, and their requests are without obligation."
Blue Moccasin thought for a moment before continuing. "We will prepare a powerful saying that I will spread village to village. It will tell of jealousy and fear, and it will tell how these chiefs planned to send our warrior to his death among the Huron. Then the people will curl their lips and turn from these without honor."
"But still the Huron will come, Blue Moccasin."
Surprised and made uneasy, the message carrier's response was immediate. "That you cannot change, oh Warrior. To meet the Huron when they come is a brave challenge, but to go alone among them would grant only a death."
"I have agreed to try."
Distressed, Blue Moccasin sought to turn him. He reasoned with skill and explained in other words, but when he had finished. The Warrior was unmoved.
"There may be a way, Blue Moccasin."
"There is no way, oh Warrior."
"Will you announce my coming, oh carrier of messages?"
"Announce. . .?" Blue was aghast.
"It is part of my plan, oh Moccasin."
"You have a plan?"
"A simple plan. I will speak with Huron leaders and ask them to end their raids."
"Ask them. . ." Again Blue was speechless.
"The Huron are also a people of reason, Blue Moccasin. Do they not cherish their honor and take pride in their fairness?"
"So it is said, Warrior, but it is also believed of our chiefs. Did you see honor today?" His voice turned sarcastic, "Somehow, I failed to note it. Will Hurons be better? Will they not greet you with guns and tomahawks?"
The Warrior almost smiled, "Like the season's first flowers, your words will charm them, oh message speaker, and pleased will be the Huron to greet The Warrior and council in peace with him."
So uncharacteristic were the words that Blue Moccasin lost the edge of his concern, and he found himself headshaking in disagreement but willing to help where he could.
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Before he entered a village of the Huron, Blue Moccasin freshened his paint and reviewed his words. Then he slung a small drum about his neck and, tapping it with one hand to announce his ent
rance, walked proudly holding high his forked stick.
When listeners assembled he began in the Onondaga tongue which was often understood. If that language failed he tried others and if unsuccessful spoke with the hand talk that was known by all.
Blue Moccasin told of the enmity that had touched both Huron and Iroquois since before their grandfathers' time. He noted that a vast lake separated the tribes and that there were few reasons to even encounter the other. He spoke of those who had died for little reason, of young men of high spirit on both sides who raided only to break the monotony of summer, but caused death and weeping to those wishing them no harm.
Finally he spoke of The Warrior, mightiest fighter of all the Iroquois, whose honor shone with a sun's brightness; who even this day might approach this village while passing to council with the sachems, seeking agreement for a great meeting of Huron and Iroquois to speak together and to agree to fight against each other no more.
He, Blue Moccasin, announced for The Warrior—whose his skill was so great that none would see him pass. The Warrior sought only council with the greatest chiefs. To prepare his way came Blue Moccasin, because, even the chiefs would not see The Warrior until he stood at their fire.
Proud was the spirit of The Warrior, and powerful was his wish for peace among the people of the lakes. Mighty would be the honor of those who struck hands in agreement, and their story would become one with the honored legends told by their grandchildren's children.
There was challenge in The Warrior's passing unseen, and in every village men went forth to prove that no Iroquois could pass their village without notice. Blue Moccasin was not worried for, according to their plan, The Warrior had passed days before. The Hurons scouted for one they would never find.
The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 16