When the pace settled in, I moved next to my uncle. “Why do the Spanish wish to leave a land where they are worshiped and enter the land of our enemy?”
He kept his head forward. After a few paces, he said, “The Spanish seek more,” and waved off my next question. “Save your strength.”
We trotted on through the morning. Through villages and past farms, we heard the same questions. “Where are you going?” “What is the reason?”
“We go to serve the Son of the Sun.” My uncle began to shout, “All who have rope, an axe, or a strong back, follow along.”
We reached the swamps by midday. The party had swelled many times over, and still more came. While most in the party rested after the long run, I followed Uncle Tecco to the water’s edge. Two canoes waited at the shoreline. They had been carried across land from the Tyronza River to Chewauhla Creek.
The creek flowed slow and wide with swampy shallows full of snakes and stubbed roots bulging up out of the muck. Crowded into the shallows, great bald cypresses stretched up straight and tall. With few limbs and thin needles, they cast forbidding shadows over the swamp. Out in the channel, the creek opened up. The water sparkled, and no trees grew.
My uncle and two others with long ropes pushed one of the canoes through the black water. Several paces out and no deeper than calf-high, they climbed in. Across the dark shallows into the light of the open channel, their canoe glided into the thick cypresses on the other side.
As Uncle Tecco approached Pa-caha territory, three men appeared from behind a ridge. I glanced around at the others who had come to watch. No one stepped out to warn my uncle. I raised my arms, and started to yell.
Someone pulled them down. “Those are Casqui scouts,” he said. “They crossed over before dawn.”
I edged to the back of the crowd as my uncle stepped onto the land of our enemy. The scouts greeted him warmly. The four pointed and gestured as they walked the shoreline.
Uncle Tecco had the paddlers take him upstream to the narrowest gap of open water. He tied a rope to a tree at the chosen point and pulled it across the channel to a cypress he selected on our side. Picking his way through the trees and roots, he played out more rope as he went.
When he came ashore, he had a plan. My uncle selected a group of older men to work on the other side. They crossed a full canoe at a time. He sent parties up and down the creek to bring back recently fallen timbers. While I waited for my task, he ordered other men and boys to find cane, saplings, and firewood.
“Those of you, who remain,” Uncle Tecco said to the women and old men, “set up camp and begin making as much rope as possible.”
I followed his orders, but felt I could do more. I knew nothing of rope making. That night, as others worked in the darkness, I sat at a fire, tearing strips of bark from the saplings others had gathered while wrinkled, nimble fingers braided rope around me. I watched until I could mimic them then braided until I could hardly see. Sometime before the night’s end, I lay down.
I woke to the sound of pounding hooves. Four horsemen charged into camp. In a panic, some yelled. Some ran. A few hurried to greet the Spaniards, boasting of their hard work.
“Casquis hold your tongues,” Uncle Tecco shouted from a walkway stretching out over the swamp. Almost like magic, the beginnings of a bridge had appeared overnight. A simple walkway of four and five logs lashed together wove through the cypress forest supported above the water by its trees.
“Silence!” Tecco yelled.
The Spaniards rode toward him. One dismounted as my uncle marched down the walkway. He stepped off onto the shore and bowed. The two conquistadors still on their horses argued, pointing at the creek and the incomplete bridge. Uncle Tecco said nothing but motioned for the one who had dismounted to follow him up the ramp.
The walkway reached to the open channel, but the cane handrails on either side did not. The Spaniard halted where the rails stopped. My uncle continued to the end. There, two tall timbers leaned out over the open water on a crossing timber, wedged and lashed to several cypress trees. Tecco pointed to the other side where they struggled to place their second timber out over the water.
The Spaniard shook the handrails and nodded to the other two.
“When all is ready on both sides,” my uncle said with a great sweep of his arms, “long timbers will be laid between the two sides over the channel, and then cane poles lashed over them for a walkway.”
Tecco Tassetti walked toward the workers gathered along the shore. “Lord de Soto and his army will walk over the Chewauhla Swamp,” he shouted, “and conquer our enemies.”
Everyone threw their fists into the air and cheered. The Spaniard on the bridge returned to his horse. One of the Casqui scouts with the conquistadors stepped onto the bridge.
“Listen,” the scout called. “Listen. Our prayers to the Spanish Cross have been answered.” A few began to cheer.
“Hear me, people of Casqui!” he shouted. “Rain has fallen upon our land.”
Everyone cheered and danced. One of the horses reared and snorted.
The scout raised his arms until the crowd fell silent. He bowed his head and said, “Amen.”
The people of Casqui repeated in one voice, “Amen.”
Uncle Tecco stepped up just as quickly and shouted, “The Son of the Sun will be here tomorrow. The bridge must be ready.”
The camp flew apart like a disturbed beehive.
“Our prayers brought the rain,” one of the old rope makers said.
“The Son of the Sun called down the rain,” said another.
“No, no, the cross gave us the rain.”
“The cross!” they all agreed.
No one around the fire spoke of the Great Creator, Father Sun, or Brothers Thunder and Lightning. They talked and wondered only about the Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and the Cross. The words stirred our blood and quickened our pace.
No one wanted to fail the Son of the Sun. Lord de Soto depended upon our labors and the wisdom of my uncle. As the day wore on, I could see his plan and watch his orders come together.
The bridge grew and improved until, by nightfall, only the center span remained unfinished and that would have to be done in the light. The campfires burned bright that night. Tired but proud men and their ancient stories gathered around each blaze. I listened and braided rope until I could no longer do either.
“Taninto.” My uncle shook me at first light. “Go to the bridge,” he said. “Help wherever needed.”
Everyone laughed and smiled as they worked. Building the bridge would mark all our lives, young or old, man or woman. Our strength came from pride. Together, we lifted and pulled the last crossing timber into place. Those not needed to hold or lash the timber down rushed out to gather more cane poles to finish the walkway.
Juggling an armful of cane, I waited for my turn when I heard horses. Six conquistadors galloped out of the forest into the camp. Twenty or so slaves ran behind.
“Hurry! The Spanish are here!” the other workers shouted at me. I climbed up the incline and out over the open channel where they waited for my bundle of cane. There was no time to return to the Casqui side.
“Move on,” the workers yelled as they tied the poles in place.
I crept on across the unfinished part of the walkway.
Behind me, the bridge filled with men carrying more cane. “Move on!” they continued to shout.
Casquis working on the Pa-caha side called out questions as I stepped off the bridge. I let the others behind me answer. I wanted to see the land of our enemy. I walked past the crowd, up the gentle bank, straight to the top of the small ridge. Their land seemed no different from ours.
“Look,” a Casqui worker yelled. “Something moves through the water.”
I recognized the elegant head of a Spanish horse. The remarkable creature that could run like the wind with his master on his back could also swim. As those on the shore began to realize what I knew, I could feel their awe.
&n
bsp; Following the first horse, swam three others. The last two horses remained on the Casqui side with their masters still mounted and yelling at the slaves. Some of the slaves and horse tenders hurried over the bridge, trying to keep pace with the horses in the water. They called to the beasts in Spanish, urging them along. After them, more Spanish slaves struggled across, loaded with blankets, saddles and horse armor.
The first tender over the bridge rushed out into the swamp to greet the lead horse. After wiping swamp muck off the horse’s back, he walked it to the shore. The huge beast flicked its tail, stretched its neck and with an angry twist of the head let out a long, 1shrill neigh, terrifying the other Casqui workers.
None had been as close as I had to the marvelous beasts. The horse raised his head and gave out another loud cry. The last of the Casquis around me, backed away as two more horses came out of the swamp.
I waded out to one of the horses struggling in the black mud. His tender came from behind and pushed me aside with harsh Spanish words. The horse shook his head and snorted. The tender reached out and gently stroked its long, powerful neck. Fear faded from the big black eyes. The tender slipped a rope over the animal’s head and offered the other end to me. Working together, we pulled the horse out.
When the tenders had dried-off and saddled all four of the horses, four conquistadors started across the bridge. Slaves carried their lances and shields, two in front of the Spaniards and two behind. Few of the Spanish could swim. They feared any body of water, no matter how shallow because of their heavy armor. Like frightened children, they squirmed across the bridge with both hands on the rails. Hardly setting a foot on Pa-caha soil, they mounted their horses. Grabbing up their shields and lances, they once again became mighty conquistadors, warriors to be feared.
They gathered along the top of the ridge, waved to the two conquistadors still on the other side and rode off in four different directions. I climbed the ridge as the other Casquis hurried back across the bridge before more Spaniards came.
Beyond the horizon stretched a land known only to those who had never returned. “Taninto of Togo,” I mumbled. “Just a boy from down the river,” I mocked. “No more. I walk proud from this day on, Taninto the Wanderer.”
Chapter 27
Manaha’s Journey
Ninety-four years after “their” arrival
Manaha slept well but woke with a heavy heart. She felt badly about how she had treated the old man who had raised her. Her grandfather had seen so much and had everything taken from him, yet he gave her all he had—his stories.
After her bath, she avoided the still, lifeless village as she walked to the growing fields. She found even less hope there. It swarmed with flapping wings, nodding heads, and bits of unwanted shuck flicked into the air. Birds screeched at Manaha as she wandered through the dried stalks. They fluttered up before her, screeching and cawing, only to land just behind her last step.
Manaha was the intruder now, the one to be chased away. It was their field until they had their fill. And soon the mice would come in search of their meager measure and, with that, snakes hunting their needs. And so it would go.
At the edge of the field, she laid out the few ears that she had not gathered two days before, not much to be proud of. She watched the birds feast and made plans for the beans if any survived.
“Leave the vines for me,” she shouted at the flock.
Three or four flew away then just dropped down in a different place.
“A pot of beans will—” she stopped and listened to the distant shouting.
“The Lodge is open.”
The call echoed around the village. Gasapa had pulled back the elk skin. The time had come, but no one hurried today. No one pushed. Manaha straggled in with the reluctant last.
Ta-kawa sat at the end of the elders’ bench, proud and equal, with Casinca in the center, and Koyota, now the oldest of the elders, on the other end. The three remained motionless as the village-lodge filled and fell silent. All eyes turned toward the entrance.
Xitude stepped through first. He carried the Pipe of Tulla between his open hands. Hais followed, carrying nothing but arrogance. They walked around the fire to the Elders of Hachia. Hais stood back as Xitude bowed and spoke.
“From the people of Tulla, I offer to share the sacred smoke from the Pipe of Tulla in peace and agreement with the people of Hachia.”
Casinca stood and bowed. “On behalf of our tribe, who hold no ill will for the people of Tulla or their emissaries, I receive this pipe given with promise and in peace.”
Koyota disappeared behind the platform into the sacred inter-room as Casinca took the pipe with both hands. Koyota returned with a conch shell filled with bark of the red willow in his right hand and a tobacco pouch made from the hide of a white buffalo in his left. Casinca placed the tobacco and a small portion of the bark into the large jade bowl and returned the pipe.
Xitude lit it with a flame taken from the council fire. He drew deeply, raised his head, and blew smoke up to the sky above him and down to the ground under him.
“Wise-ones of Hachia,” he said as he handed the pipe to Hais, “with this smoke, the people of Tulla accept the friendship you gave so freely and the reason for your hunting party’s desecration of our hallowed land.”
After Hais had smoked the pipe, Xitude pinched two fingers of tobacco from his pouch and stirred it into the bowl with the Hachia tobacco. He extended the pipe to Casinca, stem first.
“Breathe in the mingled tobaccos,” he said. “With this act, bind our two nations as one. Lives were lost. Let them always stand with honor and, from this time on, without revenge.”
Before Casinca could reply, Hais added, “Smoke from this pipe with gladness and commitment, for there will be no change of heart.”
“It is our way,” Casinca responded, “that a pipe smoked in agreement must pass full circle around the council fire.” Casinca carried the pipe of mingled tobaccos to the west side of the council fire. As he sat, he motioned the Tullas to his side: Xitude on his left and Hais to his right. Koyota took his proper place south of the fire.
Ta-kawa waited on the platform, beckoning to someone at the back. Behind the group of old men and boys, his son, Ichisi squirmed. As Ta-kawa walked to the north side of the council fire, he motioned again. The boy did not move.
Gasapa stepped out from the other side. He strutted around to the empty place on the east and squatted. Ta-kawa glared back at the platform. The son faced him straight on.
Casinca took a long draw, rose to his knees, and blew smoke in the four sacred directions. The last puff he blew into the fire. He held the pipe up and prayed.
“Great Spirit, receive the sacred smoke. Let it seal and harden the union of our two people,” he said and passed the pipe to Xitude.
The Tulla drew and exhaled into the fire without words.
Ta-kawa took the pipe and stood. “I hold the people of Tulla and this wondrous pipe with great respect. I admire the bravery of Tulla’s warriors and the cunning skill of its hunters. I breathe and exhale this smoke in honor of our union and the promise that I will, with all my wisdom and strength, lead the people of Hachia over a good path to our new homeland.”
He sat down and relit the pipe. The flames of the council fire flickered as he blew a great chest full of smoke over them. He handed the pipe to Gasapa without looking at him.
Gasapa neither stood nor spoke before he took a shallow draw. The struggle not to cough stole his breath. He had none for the fire. Ta-kawa sneered at him. Another draw and, just as quickly, he blew the smoke over the fire and passed the pipe to his right. Koyota’s hands shook as he took the ancient pipe. A thick haze rose around his long, slow puffs and fluttered over the flames.
Hais snatched the pipe from his old hands and stood like Ta-kawa. “People of Hachia,” he said, “you are now a part of the Tulla Nation and as with all its people, you must follow the will of its leaders. You cannot just consider their words as you would your lea
ders. You must obey.” He looked down at Ta-kawa.
“Listen all,” he shouted, “you have today and tomorrow to gather your families and your belongings. On the second sunrise, we will march for Tulla.” He took a short draw from the pipe and blew into the flames.
Where the circle began, the pipe returned, once again in Casinca’s hands. He stood and looked about the lodge.
“All agreed,” he said. “Words spoken and actions promised around this council fire by noble men shall be our common path.” Casinca raised the Pipe of Tulla for all to see.
“Great Spirit, receive the sacred smoke.
Bless our people.
Great Spirit, receive our words.
Bless our union.”
Manaha slipped out of the village-lodge and retreated to her island. She expected no one. Still she needed to tell a story. Sunset found her alone with her thoughts and a small fire. With the first rustle and a hope, she dropped the pieces of lightning wood onto the fire.
Chapter 28: Orb Stones
Nanza’s Journey
Forty-nine years after “their” arrival
No longer a child, I looked upon the world with new eyes. The sun shone bright and warm. The many scents of spring sweetened the air. A butterfly fluttered about the edge of the pool that rippled out from Two-Falls-One. I saw all of it differently.
Anyone could hear water crashing over a rocky ledge, but I could feel the falls. It vibrated as Taninto said. It hummed with the insects, sang with the birds, brushed past in the wind. New life and rebirth vibrated all around me. For the first time in my life, I felt that I was a part of something more than an old man’s dreary world.
A woman ready for change, I walked away from Two-Falls-One proud and strong. Taninto followed its stream through the valley. Little Pup bounced and dashed between our guide and the new woman.
The roar of the falls faded. The valley narrowed. Up its steep sides, huge boulders loomed. Our guide paused next to a fallen boulder that stood half-in and half-out of the stream. Pushing up from under the bottom edge bloomed a patch of white flowers with bright yellow centers. I started to bend down for a closer look.
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