The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby

by H L Grandin

  He realized instinctively that the pack of wolves converging on the ridge was the Runion pack. This rogue wolf pack filled the bravest hearts with the paralyzing terror understood only by the hunted. These wolves had tasted human flesh. With disregard for the abundance of natural prey, they would with wanton abandon target the lone mountain man’s riverside camp or an Indian hunting party on the trail of game.

  The ruthless alpha male had wielded his dominion over man and beast since the late 1600s. The Runion family’s campsite had been invaded by the pack of murderous killers on the night of May 22, 1678. No one was spared. The half-eaten carcasses of mother, father, and two children were enough to make the blood run cold in even the most hardened mountain men. It was the uneaten body of the two-month-old baby girl who had been disemboweled—seemingly for the shear pleasure of the kill—that had placed the price upon the Commander’s head.

  When the news of the savage slaughter of the Runion family made its way east to the tiny town of Brunswick, even the hardiest frontiersman stayed clear of the valley.

  The Native Americans feared the pack as much as the new settlers. The bounty placed upon the leader of the pack by the white men was too much for the valiant warriors of the tribes of the Chesapeake and Appalachans to resist. Many tried to kill the commander. A fortunate few returned empty handed. Most never returned at all.

  Tyoga raced towards a tangle of downed cedar trees and crouched down behind them. Grabbing handfuls of mossy loam, he began rubbing the masking scent over his chest, arms and shoulders. When the pack crashed over the rise and broke into view, Tyoga gasped as if he had plunged into the icy waters of the Susquehanna. He held his breath and dared not move while the cold yellow eyes of the killer clan scanned the ravine and the slopes beyond where Tyoga lay hidden and camoflauged.

  The Cherokee shaman had taught him that no living thing can secret itself completely. Hiding is but an illusion designed to deceive the hidden. While the hand is the instrument of shadow and concealment, it is also the betrayer that leads to detection and discovery.

  Tucking each hand into the opposite armpit, Tyoga held his elbows close to his sides. While watching the pack drift on the crest of the rise, he pressed his body hard into the protective scent of the rotting earth and stamped his form into the moist dirt blanketing the decaying cedar trunk..

  They were magnificent creatures. Their dominant mastery over all that they surveyed filled the air with a coercive sorcery that was at once charismatic and numbing. His brain screamed at him to close his eyes, shut them out, or look away, but he was mesmerized by their beauty and grace. Like balls of iron drawn to the magnetism of their allure, he could not take his eyes off of them.

  The wolves rode high on the pads of their saucer-sized paws, hinged to the ends of long legs that seemed fragile and delicate from wrist to knee. Above the knee of the forepaws, fleshy knots of massive muscles attached to barrel chests that housed an enormous heart and lungs. The sinewy sheets that anchored haunch muscles to tendon and bone gave their hindquarters a deceptively sleek appearance.

  The power, speed, and stamina generated by the sublime architecture were unrivaled in the natural world.

  The wolves seemed to possess the facial dexterity to convey the emotion and sentiment usually reserved for human kind. Joy, trepidation, anticipation, fear, and something akin to the self-awareness expressed in gratified contentment percolated from the tempered masks of the mighty warriors.

  A sudden change in posture, the lightening quick rationing of dilated pupil, and the metallic numbness of identity lost signaled a dramatic alteration of the pack’s focus and resolve.

  Tyoga dare not breathe.

  As if mustered by a commander’s call, the restless troops circled each other with their snouts pecking at the air in search for the scent of the crier. The pack froze in reverent deference when he appeared in the clearing, a hundred yards away.

  The statuesque beasts stared toward, but away from the master with their heads bowed in submissive display while never making eye contact, yet never losing sight of their lord.

  He was twenty yards from Tyoga.

  He could hear the demon breathe, smell his pungent musk, and discern the low gutteral threat emitting from his huge silver breast. Tyoga didn’t move.

  With a chirp-like bark the directive was passed. Across time and generations, as distinctively expressed as eye color, gait, height, and scent; the coded communique was understood. With a knowledge requisite upon species and kind, the effect was immediate and palpable. The changes were subtle and nearly imperceptible.

  Tyoga felt it happening. He had felt it before. The transformation would change the pack of seemingly carefree romping dogs into a blood-thirsty killing machine. So organized, so focussed, and so lethal that the prey—be it rabbit, buffalo, or deer—was already dead as it quietly grazed.

  Their huge heads lowered as their necks retracted ever so slightly into massively muscled shoulders. Their taut bodies elongated as their spines swayed to lower them to the ground. Blood engorged their thickening legs and expanding chests to support the chase. Their pupils dilated. The yellow of their iris ignited into flaming amber/orange.

  Horrified, Tyoga understood.

  Prey down. Food.

  Tes Qua.

  The pack was off before the thought was finished.

  Tyoga was right behind them.

  Chapter 4

  The Siege

  The sun was setting when Tyoga arrived at the scene.

  The remaining glow from the western sky cast a demonic pall upon the forest floor. It was the pivotal time of day when predator became prey, and those that were neither melted into the lengthening shadows to be secreted away until dawn. Details are lost in this shadow-world. The second tier senses of scent and sound become the arbiters separating life and death.

  Tes Qua’s attempts to keep the fire burning had failed, and the few remaining glowing embers were fast on the threshold of becoming barren ash. Tyoga could make out the silhouette of his friend leaning with his back against a massive chestnut tree. Clutched in Tes Qua’s hand was a once flaming pine bough that he brandished in defense against the circling pack of snarling wolves. As if writing his final prayers in the wind, the glowing end of the branch etched random patterns in the air like desperate fireflies signaling for the attention of a disinterested mate. Lying on the ground was the gleaming black blade of the obsidian tomahawk that was just out of his reach.

  With fearless abandon, Tyoga leaped from the surrounding bushes to place himself between his friend and the marauding wolves.

  His arrival startled the pack and confused the Commander. They had been only moments away from the kill. The intrusion broke the ancient pact between predator and prey, and now their growling bellies would have to endure additional insult.

  Tyoga recognized the Commander immediately. His eyes glowed hot amber with the fire of unquestioned dominance and superiority. Their eyes locked in primal embrace.

  Unaccustomed to challenge of any sort, the wolf was uneasy with the boldness of this unknown adversary. He trembled with restraint and curled his frothing black lips to reveal two-inch long incisors that had made easy work of buffalo, deer, and bear. Those adversaries, he would have attacked and dispatched without malice or hesitation.

  His reluctance to charge Tyoga resonated in the barely audible, yet deeply passionate, roar emanating from the wolf’s massive chest. The control of the growl belied the primordial hatred for this smelly white, hairless creature. For reasons not completely understood to the Commander, Tyoga required his deference. The two stared at each other for a long time.

  Without warning or sign, the pack eased away, back into the shadows.

  “Te da ho mena aiolluimet, Tes’a!!” (Get the fire goin’!) There was no response.

  “Tes’a!! Tes’a!” Tyoga demanded in a voice just above a whisper.

  Turning to catch a glimpse of his friend, he could see that the attack had begun before he had
arrived. Tes Qua’s chest and arms were covered with bites and nips, each as clean as if inflicted by the slash of an obsidian blade rather than the rapier fangs of the killer wolves. They had played with him for awhile. Assessing his strength as a warrior, they had taunted and teased with half-hearted shows of aggression. One would charge and savagely bite at the flaming pine bough that Tes Qua was using to defend himself, only to retreat to the safety of the pack and fain honor and courage at the coup.

  This cruel ritualistic behavior helped the pack determine the necessity for a quick kill. The stronger and more powerful the adversary, the quicker the deed must be done. It was discerned that Tes Qua was a trapped and powerless prey. They had used him for sport and would feat feast at their leisure.

  Tyoga’s arrival had changed the dynamic. He was an adversary to be reckoned with—strong, powerful, and driven by an instinct the wolves understood and feared: protection of kind. He stood close to Tes Qua while calling to him at irregular intervals, not only to assess his condition but to reassure himself that he was not alone—though very much alone he was.

  Tyoga used the few precious moments that were given to him by the pack’s unexpected retreat to tend to his friend. Never taking his eyes off the blackness into which the pack had retreated, he placed his foot on the handle of the tomahawk and slid it back to within Tes Qua’s reach. Slowly, quietly, he inched his way toward Tes Qua to reach with his hand behind his back to touch his friend’s bleeding shoulder. Tes Qua responded with a semi-conscious moan, and then sprang to alertness ready to fight for his life.

  “Syla Tesa. Syla. It’s me,” Tyoga said reassuringly. “Are ya still alive?” he said only half-jokingly.

  Before Tes Qua could answer, the pack began to slowly emerge from the cover of darkness.

  The more dominant males circled the scene, while the weaker members hovered in the underbrush to await the Commander’s assessment of the intruder and the order to attack.

  Tyoga’s eyes remained riveted on the more aggressive members of the pack as he made his way to the fire pit and kicked at the ashes and coals. A faint glimmer of red appeared deep within the pit. If he could get some dried leaves onto the coals, there was a chance that he could coax the ash to flames. Fire and light would be his greatest weapons.

  But he needed time.

  When the timid wolves ventured forth from the cover of the shadows to join the more dominant members of the pack, he thought, “Cain’t let ‘em regroup. Gotta keep ‘em scattered.”

  Whirling the hickory stick that he had used to balance himself while trying to free the trap from Tes Qua’s leg high over his head like a battle-ax, and screaming his most horrific war cry, Tyoga charged the confused wolves with unchecked ferosity. Taken by complete surprise, the Commander bolted and charged off into the underbrush with the rest of the pack scattering in disarray.

  With precious moments won, Tyoga wasted no time. Dropping his lance to the ground, he grabbed handfuls of pine needles; dried twigs and leaves; and threw them loosely on the bed of hot coals. He dropped to his knees and blew several precious breaths onto the coals. The tips of the pine needles began to glow, and tiny fragile flames licked the dried leaves until they burst into yellow smokey flames. He snatched the dried pine bough from Tes Qua and threw it upon the naissant flames. The dried pine ignited into billowing plumes of light that illuminated the forest floor like a cathedral foyer bathed in the light of votive offerings.

  Tyoga could see ten to fifteen wolves circling in the shadows beyond the protective dome of light that momentarily enveloped the camp. The glassy red pupils of the wolves’ hollow eyes reflected the firelight—jagged amber orbs dancing in pairs as their majestic heads bobbed and weaved in a primal dance of ritualistic display. Circling restlessly in the silent shadows of the night, their restraint was like a scornful laugh mocking the futility of the combat to come. The dried kindling lasted only a few moments before the blaze dwindled to modest flame and the blackness of the forest descended like a death shroud upon their bleak encampment.

  The darkness covered the wolves and Tyoga could see them no more.

  He could hear the pack beyond the ring of firelight. They were so close that he could smell their stale breath. They seemed content to wait.

  Tyoga took advantage of the time to tend to Tes Qua. The gashes inflicted by the snapping wolves ripped out chunks of flesh as if he had been whipped by a cat o’nine-tails. Tyoga cleaned the dried blood from his friend’s arms, chest and neck. Tes Qua revived at the gentle touch of his care and sat up more resolutely against the trunk of the tree.

  “You came back, Ty,” he said through the painful grimace that contorted his face.

  “Yeah. Heard them wolves sound the dinner bell,” he replied. “I figured it was you they was aft’r.”

  “What are we gonna do, Ty?” TesQua asked. “They’ll be back. You stole their kill. Especially the big silver back. He’ll be back sure ‘nuff.”

  “They’ll be back aw’right, Tes,” Tyoga agreed. “How are you doin’? How’s the leg?”

  “Can’t feel anything, Ty. Except its starting to ache some above my knee. We gotta get out of here. I won’t last much longer in this trap. If we don’t get me to Yonevgadoga soon to take care of this—I’m gonna lose my leg like Sessqu’Na did. We gotta get out of here.”

  “Ain’t nobody gonna lose nothin’, Tes,” Tyoga said with a hint of annoyance in his tone. “Don’t talk like ‘at. You always go seein’ the bad end of things. And don’t we always git loose? Don’t we git loose? Well, we’re gonna get quit of this mess, too. You just hang on. Just hang on.”

  The rustling in the woods was closer now. But the sound of the wolves’ heavy breathing had stopped. Tyoga looked around for anything that would burn. There were plenty of dried leaves and pine needles. Some dead pine limbs overhead were still clinging to the trunks of trees. But there wasn’t enough wood to last until dawn and to venture beyond the dim light of the campsite was unthinkable.

  “Not much here about to make a fire with, Tes, but we’ll manage. I’m gonna move you closer to the fire. You keep it burnin’, Tes. Not too big. Jest enough to give me some light. The wolves can see in the dark like its day. They’ll have the advantage. So keep it burnin’ jest enough for me to see.”

  Tyoga lifted his friend in his arms and placed him next to the fire pit as the first deafening howl shattered the stillness of the night. The viciousness of the primal scream was overwhelming. When others joined the chorus, the boys clamped their hands over their ears to shut out the sickening dirge. They had to shout to one another to be heard over the din.

  “What are they doing, Ty?” Tes Qua shouted.

  “I don’t know, Tes ‘A!” Tyoga shouted back. “Never heard wolves howl like this so close.”

  “They’re right there, Ty. We could reach out and touch them. Why are they howling?”

  This was different from anything Tyoga had ever heard tell. Wolves howl to call to one another from great distances, to locate members of their pack or to help guide them home to their dens. A lone hunter will call to the pack to tell them of his location so that they can join in the hunt and the kill; but never had he heard of wolves howling so close to their prey.

  This was a time for stealth and quiet.

  His instincts told him that he was an unwilling player in a deadly game. But what were the rules? How was it played? He had to be ready for anything.

  “I don’t know, Tes Qua!” Tyoga screamed.

  The howling stopped as suddenly as it had started. There was a great crashing through the underbrush. They could hear the sound of the wolves’ paws penetrating the stillness of the night like the ridge of a screw through a pine board. They dissolved into the blackness.

  All was deathly still.

  Tyoga’s soul was alive with the night. The hair on his arms stood on end. His breathing came in shallow gulps. The mountain has its ways. It whispers in divine subtlety through an ether that permeates the pines and the moss. T
he alarm is carried on the silent heaviness of the air. The quiet is ponderous, dark, and engulfing. Every living thing, without understanding, acknowledges the intent. But those to whom the promise speaks glow in receipt of the silent cues like a towering pine in a lightening storm.

  Tyoga knew. He understood.

  “They’re coming, Tes. Get ready. They’re coming.”

  Chapter 5

  The Battle Begins

  Frantically, Tyoga grabbed the old trapper’s knife he had retrieved from the trout pond after Tes Qua had been snared by the trap. He found the hickory stick he had used as a lance to rush the pack, and knelt down next to Tes Qua.

  “Tes, take off your che’wollas. Quick,” he said.

  Tes Qua removed the ornamental dear hides he wore above his biceps and threw them to Tyoga. With rapid agile butchering strokes, Tyoga sliced the two-inch thick bands into slender laces a quarter of an inch wide.

  “Tay chee n’qua lo’che mien.”

  He handed the laces to TesQua who wadded them into balls, plopped them into his mouth and began to chew the raw hide. Tyoga filleted the other arm band and popped them into his mouth.

  After a few minutes of chewing, the boys’ saliva had turned the leather laces into wet, rubbery bands coated with a natural adhesive the consistency of snail slime. Tyoga motioned for Tes Qua to pass the laces he was chewing to him.

  “Nay cha.”

  Flipping the hickory stick, Tyoga handed Tes the fat, rounded end. Placing the bone handle of the old trapper’s knife on the end he cradled in his lap, he quickly wound the wet leather lacings around the shaft of the lance and the knife handle. Faster and faster, tighter and tighter; he wound the lacings until he doubled over the end into the final coil.

  “ Tes ‘A, a’loqua heta ‘slo day na’”

  With a nod of his head, Tes Qua held the wet lashings over the heat of the glowing coals while Tyoga collected more wood and pinecones for fuel. The pitted blade gleamed in the amber glow of the rising heat. As the leather dried, the thongs constricted and the knife melded to the shaft of the hickory pole like it was one.