The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby

by H L Grandin

  When Tyoga passed Sunlei, she reached out and touched him on the arm. “Praire Day?” He turned around and noticed that she had not come around the bend with the others and was nowhere in sight.

  “She must have forgotten something. She’ll be along,” he said while continuing toward the front to take the lead with Tes Qua.

  “Ty, don’t leave her,” Sunlei implored. “Go back for her.”

  Ty looked around as if searching for an excuse not to go back to fetch Prairie Day. Finding none, he nodded his head in reluctant agreement. “Okay, Sunlei, I’ll go back for her.”

  Tes Qua was a few paces in front of him. Using the unspoken signs the two had developed over the years of traveling together through the woods of Appalachia, he motioned to Tes Qua that he was going back. A quick glance to the back of the pack revealed to him who was missing. He nodded that he understood. “A-Ho.”

  Tyoga broke into the loping pace at which he was most comfortable traveling through the woods. Not a full run, but much faster than a walk, it had served him well as he could travel for hours on end without breaking stride or a sweat. When he rounded a bend in the trail, he nearly tripped over Praire Day who was squatted down in the middle of the path. Her backpack was on the ground between her knees. She was fiddling with a knot in the waist sash, which held the pack high up on her back and transferred the weight to her thighs so that her strong legs could carry most of the burden.

  Ty squatted down next to her. “You okay, Praire Day? What’s the matter?”

  “My pack.” She held it away from her as if examining it at different angles would force it to confess its intent to make her as miserable as possible along the trail. “The frame is digging into me and my sash won’t stay tight.”

  “Here, let me do that.” He took the sash from her hands, unknotted it, and took a closer look at her pack frame. Removing a deer hide that was bundled in her pack, he fashioned a square cushion that would fit between the frame of the pack and her back. He secured the pad to the pack frame with some strips of leather.

  While he was working, Praire Day did not stand up, but remained kneeling by his side looking up into his face. He turned towards her and smiled.

  The two were working in a clearing surrounded by sugar maples and towering birch trees. The leaves were in their full autumn glory. The bright October sun streamed through the upper branches to beam the colors to the ground in blazing shafts of brilliant orange, crimson, and yellow-gold.

  The air was filled with the magic crispness of pre-winter chill. The natural rhythms command men to hunt and women to nurture and sustain. The imperative to couple in order to survive winter’s callous reckoning runs deep and strong. Its lure entices and binds in a mysterious alchemy as old as time, and as palpable as opportunity.

  Holding the pack and facing Praire Day, he said, “Stand up and turn around.”

  She did and he placed the pack on her back.

  Holding it high on her back, he said to her, “Tie the sash. Pull it really tight low around your hips.”

  She grabbed the ends of the sash and tied them around her waist. “Okay.”

  When Tyoga let go of the frame of the pack, it slid down her back and came to rest on her derriere. “Praire Day, you have to tie it really tight so that the weight stays high. Here. You reach back and lift the pack. I’ll tie the sash.”

  She reached back and grabbed the vertical stays of the frame and hoisted it up toward her shoulders. He moved around so that he was facing her, got down on his knees, and reached around behind her, and gathered the ends of the sash that were hanging at her sides. He knotted the sash once and pulled it taut. The knot tugged at her doeskin tunic as it came to rest just above her pubic bone.

  At the urging of the knot, the sack-like tunic assumed the shape of Praire Day’s seductive form. The softness of the deer hide was coaxed by the sash to reveal the gentle curves of her waist and thighs. She softly exhaled a tiny sigh when Tyoga pulled the sash tighter.

  He looked up into her eyes and said, “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Smiling down at him with sparkling impish eyes, she asked, “Are you?”

  Tyoga began to make the second knot, and stared straight ahead into the gentle mound of her abdomen. The seductive roundness beckoned to him, as it does to every man, and speaks of the life—his life—that could be contained and nurtured within.

  The primal needs to protect and defend, to covet and control, to seduce and violate collide in an internal disharmony that quiets only after conquest or surrender. Surrender is frequently the path that most readily yields.

  Praire Day let go of the frame and brushed the hair back out of his eyes.

  At the same instant that she said, “Tyoga,” he said “Praire Day.”

  They giggled nervously at their synchronous thoughts.

  Tyoga pulled the second knot tight, and, before rising to his feet, rested his forhead against her abdomen for the briefest of moments.

  At that very instant, Sunlei rounded the bend.

  “Oh, there you are. I—” She turned away as if she had intruded upon a private moment before continuing, “I mean, we … we were worried. Come on.” She hurried away.

  Before Tyoga could call her name, she was gone. He did not give immediate chase, but paused to look at Praire Day. Their eyes locked before she looked down at her feet. Instead of running after Sunlei, Tyoga went up the trail at a slower pace with Praire Day following close behind.

  The blazing fire warmed their campsite on the leeward side of Cormack’s Pass. The glow enveloped the party in the comforting blush that has—through some magical conjuring as ancient as campfires themselves—convinced the species of its impenetrable protection despite all evidence to the contrary. The flames were allowed to billow because they did not need a bed of hot coals for cooking.

  The pemikhan the women had packed served nicely for their evening meal. A pasty, dry bar of mashed meats and fruits, pemikhan had served as a food staple for American Indians for millenia. Its nutritious, if not tasty, sustenance kept warriors strong in battle or on the hunt, and tribes alive through the snows of winter.

  As had been the case for thousands of years, the Cherokee campsite was safe, warm, and inviting. It was arranged so that family members would be close to one another through the night. The bed for Chief Silver Cloud was made ready next to White Wolf and Praire Day. Night Bear’s and Not Afraid of Knowing’s blankets were placed next to their wives. Considered a separate family unit, Tes Qua, Tyoga, and Sunlei were bedded together.

  The night was clear and cold. The stars were shining brilliantly in the sky as there was no moon. From a bed of glowing red and white coals, the fire warmed the night.

  Tes Qua and Tyoga were the only two left awake. Next to the fire, Sunlei had fallen sleep with her head in Tyoga’s lap.

  “Tes Qua,” Tyoga said in a soft voice. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  “Yes, my brother, a big day. I fear what the Shawnee will demand of us.”

  “I’m afraid, too, Tes, but we can’t let them know.” Tyoga stroked Sunlei’s head in his lap. “We gotta stay strong, no matter what happens.”

  “Ah-ho, Ditili,” Tes Qua replied. “We will stay strong.”

  Tyoga picked up Sunlie, who was feather light in his powerful arms, placed her on the bear skin she had spread out for her bed, and covered her with extra blankets. Tyoga and Tes Qua lay down and covered themselves with deer hides and blankets. Awake together in the dark and cold, they gazed up at the stars. They both heard the rustling in the brush about twenty yards away and recognized the ritualistic circling to make a bed in the leaves. The loud “end-of-the-day” sigh brought a smile to their faces.

  Neither one said a word.

  Chapter 22

  South Fork

  The sun floated in a crystal clear blue sky, warming the crisp autumn air into another beautiful fall day.

  The party hiked along the mountain trails surrounded by ancient hardwood forests. T
hey descended a western slope, and entered a deep gorge through which a feeder stream coursed on its way to join the Chapawanna River. Shafts of sunlight pierced the tree top canopy to sprinkle the trail with powdery pools of dazzling white. They rounded a bend in the river that curved lazily to the south.

  The bank on the far side of the river abruptly broke to the west, widening the river’s course so that its flow was nearly imperceptible. The cattails bordering the west shore disappeared into grassy meadows, framed by the Blue Ridge Mountains beyond.

  The river’s expansion created a mirror smooth surface and the rising sun’s rays reflected off of it with a blinding intensity. The travelers shielded the left side of their faces from its glare as they continued on their way. With his hand deflecting the sun’s rays, Tyoga squinted to bring the far side of the river into focus.

  The Shawnee village came into view when the travelers exited the woods that edged the shoreline of the river. Nestled in a grassy, gently sloping plane, the village was ringed by dense woods to the north and east, and grasslands to the south. The river ran the length of its western edge.

  The Shawnee lived in wood framed long houses with tall sides and rounded roofs. The wood frames were covered with tree bark or hides. The houses were arranged in a roughly circular pattern with the Chief’s house in the center. Their villages were not ringed with a protective palisade. Their warriors were known for their fierceness in battle, and did not fear a raid from any neighboring tribes.

  The Cherokee were announced by a gang of whooping adolescent braves who had been stationed all along the perimeter of the village to watch for their arrival. Running with reckless abandon, the boys raced toward the village with their bows and arrows posting off their backs like drunken jockeys. Their high-pitched juvenile war cries were quickly replaced by the more sobering beat of ceremonial drums.

  Chief Silver Cloud, Night Bear, and Not Afraid of Knowing were at the head of the travelling band. Tyoga, Tes Qua and White Wolf fell in behind them, and the women brought up the rear.

  Silver Cloud told the group, “We will walk straight to Chief Yellow Robe’s lodge. Show no fear. A-hey-o. ”

  They followed the Chief’s directions without question.

  Staring straight ahead, Tes Qua said, “Bigger village than I thought it would be, Ty.”

  As they crossed the open field, voices chanted a song of welcome that floated on the late morning breeze.

  “I’ve seen this village before, Tes,” Tyoga replied. “More people ‘n I remember. Keep walkin’.”

  As the sound of the drums and the song grew in volume, they heard the CHING-cha-CHING-cha-CHING of ankle bells strapped to the lower legs of the women while they stepped in time to the beat of the drums. The counter point of the larger bells on the squaw’s right ankles and the smaller bells on their left, filled the air with an eerily seductive staccato refrain. In perfect unison, their mocassined feet stomped the hard-packed earth. CHING-cha-CHING-cha-CHING-cha-CHING. From a distance the sound was inviting and warm. At close range, its meaning became clear.

  “Sounds friendly enough,” White Wolf said.

  Tyoga and Tes Qua looked at each other. They understood the intimidating undercurrent that the bells and chant conveyed.

  The smell of roasting elk and bear wafted through the air as they made their way into the village proper.

  The metronome beating of the deer-hide drums, chanting of the villagers, and jiggling of the ankle bells, combined with the aromas of the roasting meats, nearly overwhelmed the senses when the tiny band of Ani-Unwiya from Tuckareegee was swallowed up by the Shawnee village.

  The sing-song chant broke into a chorus of welcoming whoops and hollers as the group made their way to the entrance of Chief Yellow Robe’s lodge. When Chief Silver Cloud came to the lodge’s doorway, the drums, the bells and the greeting yelps stopped short.

  In quiet, they waited for Chief Yellow Robe to formally greet the guests. The silence was interrupted only by the occasional barking of wandering dogs and the nervous giggling of the young boys. Like an armless maestro conducting a maraca quintet, the gentle breeze rattled the seedpods topping the tall grass into a metreless chorus of monotone buzz. The sizzle of fat dripping from the elk haunch onto the hot stones and ash punctuated the hush with a menacing hiss.

  Chief Yellow Robe finally appeared at the threshold of the lodge and filled the doorway with his presence. True to his name, the buffalo robe draping him from his shoulders to the ground was dyed a brilliant yellow-gold. Teased by hand into feathery tufts of silky florets, the fleecy wool shimmered in the autumn sun. His head was wrapped in a crown of lavishly folded red and yellow cloth ornately festooned with brightly-colored quail feathers, tightly spiraled pink cowry shells, and the dried puckered scrotums of enemy combatants.

  His face was not painted with the black and red war paint that was the trademark of the Shawnee warriors. Rather, his right temple was marked with a single white dot representing the color of wisdom. His left temple sported a single golden dot—the color of illumination and understanding. A single green dot was placed on his chin to indicate honor and trust. These markings clearly meant that Chief Yellow Robe was interested in talking things out rather than fighting to defend honor.

  “Ay-Ho Ug-wi-yu-hi,” (Welcome) Yellow Robe said to Chief Silver Cloud. Speaking in Tsalagie, he continued, “My people welcome you to our village. We will care for you as our own. While you are with us, no harm will come to you or your people.”

  This was the traditional welcome extended to visitors who seek shelter and food at a foreign village. While the warm words were welcome, Silver Cloud and his party remained on edge.

  Chief Silver Cloud spoke in an unusually loud voice. “Chief Yellow Robe, we have traveled far to talk with the Shawnee about matters that have come between our peoples. It is good that we speak of these matters like men. It is good that we do not kill one another as in the old ways. The union of your daughter, Winged Woman with Grey Owl of the Mountain Clan forged a bond of peace between our peoples that must not be broken. Your grandchildren are of the Cherokee nation, and your wisdom to talk rather than fight is welcome by the Ani-Unwiya and all of the People.”

  Chief Silver Cloud paused. He understood that what he had to say next would be difficult for Chief Yellow Robe to understand. Looking into Chief Yellow Robe’s eyes, Chief Silver Cloud continued, “We must speak of things that belong to the spirit world. It will be difficult for us to understand these things. My heart is heavy at the loss of your children. I, too, have lost children. I understand the tears of a father who cries in the night for his sons.”

  As a sign of respect for the dead his words now called to mind, Silver Cloud paused again.

  Continuing in a more somber tone, he said, “How these things have come to pass are difficult questions to answer. Some say that the death of your sons has come at the hands of our white Cherokee brother.” He pointed to Tyoga. “Others say that their deaths did not come at the hands of any man, but that the spirit-dog Wahaya-Wacon caused these terrible and tragic events. However we answer these troubling questions, Chief Yellow Robe, I must tell you that which you already know. Your sons will not return from the embrace of your ancestors. What has been done, has been done.”

  Chief Yellow Robe and the other tribe elders nodded in recognition of the words Silver Cloud had spoken.

  “Chief Silver Cloud is a great chief of the Cherokee People,” Yellow Robe replied. “His words are wise. The Shawnee have lived in peace with our Cherokee brothers to the north who allowed us to settle on this land. The peace that was broken by the dog soldiers who raided the village of Tussentee many moons ago when the men of the village were away on the winter hunt, was broken by Shawnee braves not of the South Fork Clan. They did terrible things at the bidding of the white eyes in exchange for whiskey and thunder sticks. They were bad men, and they were punished.”

  Chief Yellow Robe now paused as Silver Cloud had done to indicate that his next words were
of added importance. “What has come to pass has cost my people the lives of six young braves. Two of these braves were my own sons, Spotted Calf and Running Elk. Whether the lives of my sons and those of the other Shawnee braves were taken by the one you call your white brother, or by the spirit dog, Wahaya-Wacon, they are deaths that rest at the entrance to your lodge. Payment must be made for the lives we have lost.”

  Recognizing that he was speaking with more passion in his voice than he had intended and to continue in such a manner would be considered an offense to their invited guests, Yellow Robe reined himself in. In a more gentle tone of voice, he said, “We will not speak of such matters now. Tonight, we will gather around the council fire in the great lodge. Now, you and your family need to rest and eat. We will meet after the setting of the sun.”

  Chapter 23

  Colliding Truth

  The Shawnee had constructed a shelter on the outskirts of the village in which the Cherokee visitors were invited to stay. The campsite was located in a grassy plain about two hundred yards south of the village. A substantial structure, the lean-to even contained an inside fire pit for cooking and warmth. The campsite was comfortable, but did not afford the protection that being within the compound would have offered. Someone would have to stay awake on watch throughout the night.

  The women unpacked their provisions and prepared the interior of the shelter for their overnight stay. They were meticulous in the preparation of a campsite, even if it was for a single night’s stay. The lean-to had to be arranged in accordance with Cherokee customs, and the women set about the task in silence.

  The men started a fire outside of the shelter, and took stock of their weapons while speaking about the council that would take place that evening.

  Chief Silver Cloud began, “I fear that Chief Yellow Robe will demand much in payment for the lives he has lost.” He reached into his adobe and removed a small pouch of crushed tobacco leaves. Placing the end of a long stemmed clay pipe into his mouth he blew hard to remove remnants of burnt tobacco.