dreams.
His mind glided on the wings of the great eagle and his vision drank in the sights of The People's beginning and their struggle to survive through time. Words that drifted through his consciousness called him a warrior, a protector of his people, one whose love for his people, his homeland, and all of nature was stronger than his fear of death. Pride of being a warrior filled him.
A sense of solid earth beneath him came upon him gradually. The voice that had carried him along for an unknown time became louder, the words more distinct.
The old man was telling of the first ball play between the birds and the animals and why the spirits of only the fastest and most cunning of those first ball-players would be called on to aid them in their game. Then there were no more words.
James opened his eyes to see the old man rise slowly to his feet and hobble on stiffened limbs to the short doorway and raise the flap of heavy hide.
The warriors pushed to their feet and filed out of the Asi as calmly as they had filed in. James felt wobbly on his feet but did not show it. The slow walk to the water was in itself a test of will.
The solemn row of players stopped a few feet from the gently flowing water and removed the only piece of clothing they wore. Here they waited silently for the next test of endurance.
The old man walked up to James and held a comb of bone before his face. James obediently looked at the comb and nodded. Though he'd played the game before with the Choctaw, he'd never endured the purification ritual.
The honor, he reminded himself, had been bestowed upon him by Deer's invitation. And honor was how he must view this torture. Few white men were ever allowed to experience these tests. Too much depended on the ability to endure.
The old priest placed the sharp teeth of the comb to James' shoulder and raked it down the length of his arm. Satisfied that the white man did not flinch he moved from his side to stand directly in front of him.
His boisterous chanting paused as he stared in confusion at the four angry, red whelps that New Moon in her anger had stretched across James' chest.
James tightened his lips to control a grin. There was no telling what the old man thought. Ancient eyes lifted to his and there was no doubt that whatever thoughts gathered in the priest's mind, the result boded ill for James.
He was not mistaken. The old man moved stiffly to his other side and watched the white man's face closely as he pushed the sharp points of the bone well below the skin line and then drew it slowly down. James focused his eyes on the dark horizon, and did not flinch. Giving a satisfied grunt the ancient soul moved to the next warrior.
James felt the warm blood running freely down his arm to drip from his fingertips. The bleeding would stop soon. He was not concerned. If DuPrey were successful in turning the support of the Cherokee to the French, there would be much more white man's blood than his own feeding the soil of this world.
Just as the sun stained the eastern skies with its first fiery rays the holy man ran the sharp comb down the last arm and gave the command for the warriors to go to water.
The coldness of the mountain stream stung the deep scrapes on James' arms as it forced the heat from his body, causing the bile to rise in his throat and his muscles to contract in painful spasms. With iron control he forced himself to dip, as did the others, below the surface seven times.
Once this was completed and the final prayer spoken by the magi, the warriors lined up and sang as they marched toward the playing field.
The village watched their warriors coming forward in silent awe, but as soon as the first foot touched the field the loud cheering and whooping of the crowd drowned out the warrior's song.
James and Silent Deer fought like the warriors they were. Between them they disabled six of the opponents. Everyone knew the two had a wager going, and each tried to outdo the other but in so
His mind glided on the wings of the great eagle and his vision drank in the sights of The People's beginning and their struggle to survive through time. Words that drifted through his consciousness called him a warrior, a protector of his people, one whose love for his people, his homeland, and all of nature was stronger than his fear of death. Pride of being a warrior filled him.
A sense of solid earth beneath him came upon him gradually. The voice that had carried him along for an unknown time became louder, the words more distinct.
The old man was telling of the first ball play between the birds and the animals and why the spirits of only the fastest and most cunning of those first ball-players would be called on to aid them in their game. Then there were no more words.
James opened his eyes to see the old man rise slowly to his feet and hobble on stiffened limbs to the short doorway and raise the flap of heavy hide.
The warriors pushed to their feet and filed out of the Asi as calmly as they had filed in. James felt wobbly on his feet but did not show it. The slow walk to the water was in itself a test of will.
The solemn row of players stopped a few feet from the gently flowing water and removed the only piece of clothing they wore. Here they waited silently for the next test of endurance.
The old man walked up to James and held a comb of bone before his face. James obediently looked at the comb and nodded. Though he'd played the game before with the Choctaw, he'd never endured the purification ritual.
The honor, he reminded himself, had been bestowed upon him by Deer's invitation. And honor was how he must view this torture. Few white men were ever allowed to experience these tests. Too much depended on the ability to endure.
The old priest placed the sharp teeth of the comb to James' shoulder and raked it down the length of his arm. Satisfied that the white man did not flinch he moved from his side to stand directly in front of him.
His boisterous chanting paused as he stared in confusion at the four angry, red whelps that New Moon in her anger had stretched across James' chest.
James tightened his lips to control a grin. There was no telling what the old man thought. Ancient eyes lifted to his and there was no doubt that whatever thoughts gathered in the priest's mind, the result boded ill for James.
He was not mistaken. The old man moved stiffly to his other side and watched the white man's face closely as he pushed the sharp points of the bone well below the skin line and then drew it slowly down. James focused his eyes on the dark horizon, and did not flinch. Giving a satisfied grunt the ancient soul moved to the next warrior.
James felt the warm blood running freely down his arm to drip from his fingertips. The bleeding would stop soon. He was not concerned. If DuPrey were successful in turning the support of the Cherokee to the French, there would be much more white man's blood than his own feeding the soil of this world.
Just as the sun stained the eastern skies with its first fiery rays the holy man ran the sharp comb down the last arm and gave the command for the warriors to go to water.
The coldness of the mountain stream stung the deep scrapes on James' arms as it forced the heat from his body, causing the bile to rise in his throat and his muscles to contract in painful spasms. With iron control he forced himself to dip, as did the others, below the surface seven times.
Once this was completed and the final prayer spoken by the magi, the warriors lined up and sang as they marched toward the playing field.
The village watched their warriors coming forward in silent awe, but as soon as the first foot touched the field the loud cheering and whooping of the crowd drowned out the warrior's song.
James and Silent Deer fought like the warriors they were. Between them they disabled six of the opponents. Everyone knew the two had a wager going, and each tried to outdo the other but in so
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