The Eagle Feather: Life is Hard, but Beautiful (The Eagle Feather Saga Book 1)

by A. K. Vyas

  “Chief Sev knows mammoth best, let’s go see him,” Papa answered.

  The Chief was seated on a hickory stump sharpening his spear. He puffed from his black pipe and greeted them warmly. “Good morning, young man, are you ready for mammoth?”

  Emil had never spoken to directly to the Chief before and was visibly nervous. Papa encouraged him. Emil took a deep breath. “My papa says mammoth are very dangerous. Chief, do the big bulls lead? What’s the best way to kill one with a spear? I think the cave drawings also show us a safe way to hunt mammoth. Is there a huge tree somewhere on the path the mammoth take?”

  The Chief’s eyes sparkled with recollection.

  “Yes, we call it the Old Man. It’s the oldest tree in this valley and the biggest. Mammoth herds are led by an old female. The bulls bring up the rear when marching. They are very hard to kill with spears. A spot behind the ears or on top of the head and spine is best, but it’s very hard to hit.”

  “Good,” was the boy’s laconic reply. Emil grabbed a branch and drew the entire cave drawing in the snow at the Chief’s feet. The two men looked at each other then back down at Emil. The boy’s memory was incredible.

  “Papa, it’s good you noticed the cave drawings. The cave men drew a Falling Spear mammoth trap, not their spirits on the wall. This big old tree is right next to the mammoth path. There’s a huge branch that goes high across the path. The cavemen hung a really big spear over this branch with a rope as a trap. This rope attaches back to the trunk of the big tree, then back across the path tied to another tree as high as a big bull mammoth’s head. Anything smaller than a big mammoth passes safe under the rope. A bull mammoth has to push past the rope, which sets off the trap. The falling spear kills it.”

  The Chief motioned for them to sit down next to him. He took a knee and traced his finger back over the lines of the trap drawn in the snow. Smoke puffed slowly from his pipe as he closed his eyes in deep contemplation. Emil wasn’t sure what to make of the look on the old warrior’s face. Chief Sev grabbed his water pouch. “Impressive, most impressive. Let’s go see the Old Man.”

  He led the four of them through a snow trail toward the Old Man. The pungent smell of smoke wafting from the Chief’s pipe was strong and nutty in the crisp breeze.

  “Do you smoke, Emil?” inquired the Chief with a raised eyebrow.

  “No, my papa never has, Opa never did, and Papa says it’s bad for breathing,” was Emil’s earnest reply. He didn’t realize the Chief was joking.

  The Chief chuckled, then wheezed back a dry smoker’s cough. “Your papa’s right, it’s a filthy habit. Never smoke. Did you know your opa didn’t think smoking was bad for breathing? Has your papa not told you the story of the Black Angel?”

  Papa shook his head, and Emil was all ears. The Chief had the wistful faraway look in his eyes of a hunter who has seen too many harsh winters. He began.

  “She was a pantheress, as black as the darkest night. We were at war with the Mountain Men and raiding their lands. This Black Angel wasn’t a maneater, but a ‘manhater.’ She did this with increasing fury until the end. She did things normal panthers or even maneaters never do. She struck by both day and night. She never ate a bite of her victims and clawed up their bodies beyond recognition with rage.

  “We later learned the reason for her fury. Two Mountain Men were out chopping wood and came across her cubs by her cave. They killed them. She saw this and avenged her babies by ambushing them. In the end the Black Angel wasn’t evil, but a powerful, vengeful mother

  “Your opa would lead four-man raiding teams into their lands. We’d swim the river during the full moon and hide in a cave on their side. Just before dawn we’d creep up and kill or snatch a guard and leave an eagle feather. We wore their footpads and instead of racing back across the river, we’d double back to this cave until the next night. They never figured this out. The Mountain Men thought they fought ghosts.”

  Emil stated, “You would leave an eagle feather to show them they weren’t safe anywhere, even in their own village. We attacked their spirit.”

  Chief Sev nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, wars only end when one side loses the will to fight. In war, attack your opponents’ minds as well as their bodies. They wake up, one of their guards is lying dead with an eagle feather on his chest. The other is missing, never to be seen again, just as if he vanished into thin air. No one saw anything, no traces, and their warriors see no tracks back toward the river.”

  The Chief took another long drag from his pipe, while Emil pondered all of this, and continued.

  “I was the youngest hunter on one such raid. We didn’t know about the cub story until much later. We came across panther kills in the forest. It was just a maneater that was killing our enemy. We would find single Mountain Men torn to shreds on obscure trails.

  “The Black Angel ambushed us from a tree shortly before dusk. I was the last in line and her target. Luck saved me! In her zeal to kill she missed seeing my spear hung over my shoulder and skewered herself in the side as she landed on me. With a bloody screeching roar, she instantly leapt back into a thorny hollow of trees. I was bruised but unhurt. We had to abort the raid and head back immediately. The whole forest had heard this ruckus.

  “Your opa checked on me, then began following the blood trail into the brush to finish the panther. We protested. It was a war they started; let the panther kill more Mountain Men. The Eagle Feather knew this area was where their women and children pick fruit. He reminded us real men don’t make war on women and children. They would be in danger from the wounded panther here tomorrow. We countered with him some of our women had been killed by Mountain Men. His rebuke of ‘we are not those men’ was no surprise. He could have ordered any of us after the panther but didn’t. Respect is the currency of men, Emil. He treated us with respect.”

  Chief Sev looked so much younger recounting these events.

  “The daylight was fading rapidly. My spear had started this mess. There was no way he was going in there after it without me. I suggested we wait a bit, maybe the cat would bleed out. I asked if there was time for a quick smoke before we went in. We never smoked on missions, it could get us killed. A whiff of smoke wouldn’t matter now though, it was almost dark and we were leaving. He waited until I finished, then we followed the blood trail. There was dark blood everywhere. A child could have followed this trail. I led with him a step behind. We weren’t that far in this wood when I felt a drop of something hot and wet on the back of my neck. We dove to the ground, looking up with our spears. The Black Angel was crouched to spring on us from a tree we’d just passed. She had bled out mere moments before we passed under her. Both of us had shaky hands as we looked into her lifeless eyes. We realized this panther had baited a trail with her own blood, then doubled back high in the trees to ambush us.

  “This is when your opa asked, ‘Who says smoking is bad for you?’” deadpanned the Chief.

  Papa laughed hard. He’d clearly never heard this story from his father. They both thanked the old warrior.

  The Chief’s weathered face briefly lit up again with a youthful recollection. He looked Emil in the eye.

  “We’d have followed your opa into Hell itself. He was truly a force of nature. I once saw him kill three huge Mountain Men so fast, all three were dead before the first hit the ground. Kishor was just…calm. This isn’t why we loved him—he truly cared for us. Any danger, any risk he would take on himself first. Leadership is simple, Emil. First, know your stuff; second, be a man; third, take care of your men.”

  They were at the base of the Old Man by the hottest part of the day. The gnarled old colossus was the grandest thing Emil had ever seen. Papa and the Chief noted there were already notches in the timeless trunk of the ancient tree, at about the height of a bull mammoth’s head.

  Papa climbed the old tree and saw another notch in a smaller tree directly across the path. This was where the rope trigger was tied. How many mammoths had this trap taken in
days of old?

  Papa measured out loud, “The Falling Spear would have to be big, about the weight of two large men. If we double-wrapped some climbing ropes, they should hold it. We lace the rope in leaves and vines so it looks natural. How do we test this?”

  Emil called out, “Papa, it works, otherwise the cavemen wouldn’t have drawn it. The trap works.”

  The boy was right. It would take a full day to whittle a tree trunk down into the Falling Spear. At least four men were needed to climb the tree and set the trap.

  Papa assessed, “We can be back at dawn with ropes and axes and have the trap set by dusk. I’ll mark a good tree for the falling spear close by, before we leave. We might miss this herd though.”

  Chief Sev shrugged. “There will be herds passing for at least a full moon cycle. If this trap works, we can take a bull from every passing mammoth herd without losing a single hunter. That would leave us with enough smoked meat to last through spring. This is incredible.”

  The old warrior took another puff of his pipe. Emil saw him face the sun and hold his arm out. His hand was thumb up, fingers touching, with his palm facing his eyes. Chief Sev had placed his hand so the sun sat on his first finger. Emil looked at Papa in confusion. The Chief and Papa grinned. It was easy to forget how young the boy was.

  “Emil, pay attention,” Papa instructed. “This could save you someday.’

  The gap between the sun and the ground was exactly the height of Chief Sev’s four fingers.

  “Emil, this is how we measure remaining daylight. We all know how long it takes a man to run from the Mountain River to the village. That distance is roughly four fingers running, or eight fingers walking. The animals rule the night. You must always know when the sun sets. Do you follow?”

  Emil pondered this, then smiled. “I think what you are saying is this. This Old Man tree is about halfway between the village and the Mountain River. I think it would take two fingers running to get home before sunset, or four fingers walking. The space is four fingers now, so if we want to walk home before sunset, we’d better leave now?”

  The men’s smiles told him he was right. Emil remembered to thank Chief Sev for this lesson.

  At the evening meal, the scouts reported the mammoths would take two days to get to the area of the trap. Early the next morning Aash and two hunting teams headed for the Old Man. They found the spear tree Aash had marked and chopped it down. By midday the log was whittled down into the heavy Falling Spear. The team sharpened the point and tempered it with fire. The sun was high when strong lengths of sinewy rope had finally hoisted everything into place.

  The final step was disguising the rope with vines and branches. The Falling Spear mammoth trap was set. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Aash and the hunting teams were back well before sunset.

  There was just something grand about the giant pachyderms. The People were eager to see if the new trap would work. All the little boys wanted to go see the mammoth hunt, yet none were allowed. If things went bad, mammoth were still the largest, most dangerous game in the woods. It was no place for children.

  The plan was simple. At dawn two hunting teams and a group of village women would take position on a series of small hills a short distance from the Old Man. If the trap was sprung, there would be a great deal of meat to skin and pack back to the village on travois. Chief Sev still marveled at the notion of taking a mammoth with a trap. It couldn’t be this easy.

  There were no wolf tracks or sign anywhere near the trail to the ancient redwood, but Papa knew the wolves were watching closely. Everything was in place by mid-morning. If you have a good plan, the hardest part is usually just sitting and waiting.

  As always, Cloud was the first to know. The white wolf’s keen nose picked up the mammoth scent well before the hunters saw the herd approaching the Old Man. It was a small herd led by a dark gray spotted female. The forest sounds of the winter birds were replaced by a cacophony of snorting cows, crying calves, and the lazy grunts of the bull mammoths.

  Aash watched the herd from a small tree on an adjacent hill. He checked the wind to make sure the herd’s keen noses wouldn’t suspect anything. Watching the herd brought a tinge of sadness. I understand now why you didn’t hunt mammoth, Father. It’s the sounds they make back and forth, and the way they scold and tease the playful calves. All of it just seems so…human.

  His thoughts were interrupted by an abrupt snapping sound followed immediately by a thundery clap. Flocks of small birds fled the trees around the Old Man. There was an earsplitting bellow from the mammoth that triggered the trap. Aash could see an old bull down on his knees with his ears flopped forward and his trunk folded. It was a clean kill to the spine. The force of the blow had actually forced an ivory tusk clean out of its socket. The herd was angry. Several bulls surrounded the fallen mammoth. The herd was stomping angrily in a killing rage. They trumpeted harsh-voiced grunts over their companion’s fate. They weren’t leaving the old bull.

  The hunters waited while not sure what to do. It was the wolves that solved this stalemate. The large gray pack strutted into view, stiff-legged and snarling at the herd. Ever so slowly with great reservation, the spotted old cow slowly turned and resumed down the trail. Chief Sev and Aash couldn’t believe their eyes, as many of the herd touched heads with the fallen bull before they left. There weren’t many dry eyes among the People now.

  Aash led them to the trail quickly. Few things are as pitiful looking as a dead mammoth.

  The Chief spoke sagely. “This kill is good for the People. We need all this meat and fat to survive the winter. The tusks make us so may tools, splints, needles, knives. We honor this old bull, and will use every part of him. Let’s get to work. We have so much to do to be home by nightfall.”

  The People loaded eight full travois that day. A heaping treasure of meat, fat, and gleaming ivory tusks. As the weary caravan made its way home, they could hear the cracking of bones and marrow on the trail behind them. The wise wolves were finally claiming their grisly spoils.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “The child of lion is a lion.” -Swahili Proverb

  Edelweiss

  Blue smoke rose lazily from the village Ghers at the cherry red dawn. Spring was reborn in all her majestic, verdant grandeur. She decreed new life must burst forth from the death and cold of frost and snow. It had been the best winter the People could remember. The smoked mammoth meat kept them well fed. Chief Sev and the Elders couldn’t remember such a winter. None had died from hunger or the frosty elements.

  Mama and Holly were walking the children through the morning dew droplets. They listened to the melodious chirps of freshly hatched birds. Holly pointed out the geese honking high overhead on their return north. Holy was the midwife for the People and Mama’s dearest friend. She’d helped deliver Emil into the world with the ancient scarf method. Emil knew his papa only referred to her as “that Angel Holly” in honor of this service.

  The People taught their young ones to swim. A boisterous little band was headed for a lily filled little pond. Cloud was up front chasing yellow butterflies as the smell of lilac filled the breeze.

  Mama was telling them all a story about Lake Nakuru in the jungles of the south lands beyond the great sand seas. The legend was, there are so many flamingos there, the lake looks pink from a distance. The children marveled at the idea of a pink lake.

  Despite this pleasant setting, Mama had a strange feeling of trepidation. Experience had shown her the value of this sixth sense, but she couldn’t quite put a finger on it. A child wanted to know if they could swim with flamingos, or if there were crocodiles?

  Mama laughed. “I think so. I’ve never been there but its’s supposed to be salty water. The crocodiles there like fresh water.”

  “There aren’t any crocs in our little swimming pond, right?” asked Shala.

  The two women reassured their charges there weren’t. The pond was still very chilly and Cloud splashed them all jumping in after the two wome
n. The little ones now wanted no part of the cold water.

  Mama pointed out how Cloud swam paddling with his paws and told the children to do the same. There were still no takers.

  Finally, Mama offered to tell a favorite story about a river turtle and a Skorpon if they all tried swimming. The children loved her stories and took this deal. The woman took two in at a time until every child had a turn. Some were naturally better than others. Emil was in the latter camp. He hated getting his hair wet and was scared of having his head underwater.

  The older boys began teasing him. Jak went a bit too far. “How are you going to be a hunter, Emil, if you’re so scared of just water?” taunted the older boy.

  Emil ignored him as the ribbing got worse, then Emil lost his temper. “I will learn to swim, Jak. You can never grow more brains, Jak. You will always be an idiot!” Emil fired back.

  The bigger boy pushed him. Emil punched him in the face and the boys wrestled until Jak had pinned Emil into submission. Jak won but never picked on Emil again. The People let their children settle such differences. How would a child who couldn’t handle a bully grow into a hunter that faced down a charging Grizzly?

  “If you two baboons are finished, it’s time for the story,” declared Mama. Then she started.

  “A long time ago there was a wise old turtle who lived next to a great river. He was kind and often advised the forest creatures. The Skorpon came to the riverbank asking for a ride to the other side.

  “Midway across the river, the compassionate turtle survives the Skorpon’s sting due to his protective shell. The turtle is baffled by the Skorpon’s behavior. They are old friends. Both also know the Skorpon can’t swim, and a stinger can’t penetrate a turtle shell. The Skorpon responds that it acted not out of malice but an irresistible urge to sting, even if it drowns. The wise old turtle is angry, but ultimately decides against drowning the Skorpon. However, the old turtle never helps him again. The turtle then thanks the Sky Spirits for this valuable lesson.”