“Right away Grandpa got to his feet, stepped over to the fire and dipped his bandana into the water that he had boiling for coffee before he had to put his fire out. He let it cool for a few seconds and then wrung it out. He knelt down next to the Indian who was in too much pain to protest, and placed the soothing warmth of the cloth on the bleeding wound.
“Well, that Indian lay there for a long while and let Grandpa tend to his wound. After awhile he picked his head up off of the ground and looked up into your grandpa’s face. Grandpa smiled and pointed to himself and repeated, ‘O-gi-na-ni-li. Joshia. O-gi-na-ni-li.’
The Indian propped himself up on his elbow, pointed to himself and said, ‘Openchanecanough.’ He looked down at his wound, and then back at your grandpa.
“An’ I’ll never forget your grandpa tellin’ me this. He said that the Indian looked away from him and said in almost a whispered voice that had no emotion in it all, ‘O-gi-na-ni-li.’
(Friend)
”
Tyoga’s father stood up, moved a chair from the table and sat next to his son to stare into the flames of the fire. After a long silence, he added, “Five days after Grandpa had left the cabin to go hunting, your grandma hears a dull thud against the cabin door that startled her awake. She jumped up, ran to the door, and pulled it open. Your Grandpa Jo fell at her feet like a sack of grain. Wrapped in his arms under the protection of the buffalo robe was the near lifeless body of Openchanecanough, the brother of the Chief of the Powhatan nation. Your gandpa carried him through the back county for two days to reach the front door of that tiny cabin nestled in the grove of trees along the banks of the James. And when Grandpa fell through the door with that Indian wrapped in his arms, he saved the lives of generations of Weathersbys to come.”
He turned and looked at his son and said, “You wouldn’t be sittin’ here with me if it hadn’t been for your grandpa’s wisdom, courage and strength. All of that—and more—is coursing through your veins. You’re born of fearless stock, boy.”
The story was over. The two sat in silence, wrapped in the warm glow of the fire for a very long time.
By March of 1622, the injured Powhatan brave that fell through the cabin door wrapped in Joshia’s arms was Chief of the Powhatan nation. The man that Rebecca reclaimed from death and nursed back to health came to realize, just as his brother, Powhatan, had before his death, that the Englishmen had settled in Jamestown to do more than trade with the Indians. Openchanecanough understood that nothing short of complete domination of his people, and possession of their lands would satisfy the invading force.
In defense of his land, people, and way of life, Openchanecanough carried out a well-orchestrated attack on all English settlements. In a highly coordinated series of attacks, the Indians killed 347 settlers, one fourth of all of the English colonists in the New World.
Wolstenholmes Towne was one of the hardest hit settlements. The attackers killed men, women, children, and livestock. They destroyed crops and burned every home, except one. The Weathersby’s log and earthen cabin nestled in the shallow glade along the fresh water run on the banks of the James River was left untouched.
When Openchanecanough realized that his plan to wipe out all of the settlers in his tribal lands had failed, he knew that the price to be paid at the hands of the white eyes would be devastatingly cruel. They would not fight alone. Their bitter enemies in the Sioux nation would be paid to fight with the English to punish the Powhatans, and the English would have no control over the renegade Sioux after the battles began.
The Weathersby family, who had nursed him back to health, had no chance of being spared an agonizing death at the hands of bloodthirsty Sioux warriors. He made hasty arrangements to save their lives.
The Ani-Unwiya had not participated in the Powhatan raids on the settlers, so their villages would be spared in the brutal battles of retribution that were but weeks away. In the dark of night, a party of Powhatans moved Joshia and Rebecca Weathersby and their children three days to the west to the Amansoquath village where they would be safe from the genocidal attacks that were sure to come.
Openchanecanough would never see the Weathersbys again. A hard man who ruled with an iron fist and meted out justice with merciless cruelty had repaid the debt he owed to Joshia and Rebecca Weathersby. He had no way of knowing that their bloodline would one day live among his decendents and save their lands from the grasp of a king.
Part Two
1696
The Power and The Promise
Chapter 12
Mount Rag
T
wo years after the battle on the escarpment, Tes Qua’s leg had healed well enough for him to walk again, and he was able to travel a mile or two without difficulty. But he was still many months away from being able to accompany Tyoga on his overnight trips into the backwoods, or his week-long forays to distant mountaintops and hidden valleys deep within the Shenandoah. In his place, Sunlei became Tyoga’s constant companion.
It was a glorious fall day.
With a fractious shag of glorious yellow-gold, the sugar maples blanketed the gentle slopes of the foothills leading to the rocky summit of Old Mount Rag. Sugar maple gold yielded to matted amber hues at the intersection of foothill and mountain. The edges of the lower elevations burned with a brilliant coyfish orange before soaring to the heights where the foliage surrendered to a Georgia clay red.
Tyoga and Sunlie were on their second day of a three-day journey to visit with Sunlei’s mother’s sister, Sky Dove, who lived with the Mountain Creek Clan of Ani-Unwiya Cherokee. Sky Dove had been given to the son of the chief of the Mountain Creek Clan after the confederation council of 1666. Their union was a marriage of political convenience that united the clan in a familial bond to guarantee cooperation in times of peace, trade in times of need, and unquestioned loyalty in times of war. The practice was an age-old custom that reconciled the heartache of loveless unions by the stability and peace that served the greater good.
Sunlei and Tyoga were both anxious to get to the Mountain Creek village. Her cousins, Walks Alone and Night Sky, were favorite childhood friends; and had grown very close with Sunlei, Tes Qua, and Tyoga over the years. Oftentimes, after arriving at Mountain Creek; Tyoga, Tes Qua, and Walks Alone would spend the entire week in the freedom of the mountains, while Sunlei visited with Sky Dove and Night Sky in the comfort of their lodge. The boys had many wonderful memories of camping, fishing, and hunting together. They would miss not having Tes Qua there with them to enjoy this visit.
Tyoga and Sunlie paused at one of the many falls cascading from the higher elevations. As the water flowed over the polished surface of an enormous slab of granite, it was fractioned into a lacey curtain by interrupting lichens, moss, and glassy-edged quartz.
Sunlei knelt at Tyoga’s feet and cupped her hand to bring the cool mountain water to her lips. Her eyes darted from side to side to check the underbrush on the rise to the East as she drank from her hands.
Tyoga knew that she was uneasy. He understood why.
“Ty,” she said in a hesitant whisper.
He did not answer.
“I feel … something. I don’t know …” She tried to give voice to her trepidation.
Tyoga looked around and smiled when he knelt down in the stream next to her. He reached his cupped hand into the coursing water to get a drink and noticed the water skimmers skating across the surface.
The odd little bugs darted about in a random—yet determined—display of senseless frenzy while relying with absolute certitude upon forces about which they had no knowledge to keep them afloat—and alive. Chaotically scurrying about on spindly oar-legs, some of the water-walkers desperately struggled against the current to gain access to the serenity of a calm, quiet eddy where they could skate and float and rest. Some had won their hard fought goal. They took no notice of their brothers’ plight.
Tyoga wondered if the entrance to the tranquil haven was purely serendipitous or by design.
Is man’s journey so much like that of the no-count water bugs. Does anyone else see?
“Ty, did you hear me?” Sunlei repeated with a hint of the ‘you never listen to me’ tone purchased in the currency of a secure and devoted relationship.
“I heard you, Sunlie,” he replied. “It’s okay. We’re safe.”
“Then you feel it, too? But what is it? What is here with us?” She continued to look around.
He splashed his face with water, stood up, and peered up over at the ridge. Glancing down at his moccasins, he rolled some stones with his toe. “I see him all the time. He’s never far. At first, I’d catch a glimpse of a gray and white shadow passing real fast through the brush. When I didn’t see the shadows I’d hear him walking off the trail along side of me. It scared me the first time I saw him since that night. Wasn’t sure what to make of it. I didn’t know what he wanted.” He wiped the water from his face with his shirt.
Sunlei moved closer and put her arm around his waist. Cocking her head, she looked up at him. Noticing the jagged scar on his left bicep from the battle with the wolves, she caught herself and quickly looked away. It wasn’t the Indian way for a woman to dwell upon a brave’s wounds. While Indian Braves could—and would—touch and examine with great interest, and near jealousy, the battle scars warn as badges of courage by their owner, a woman looking at a war wound with pity or concern was a sign of deep disrespect.
In the quiet of the moment, Sunlei took stock of the young warrior standing by her side. He was a remarkable young man, and she was proud to be with him—in him. She understood his silence, and revered his need for contemplation. It was in the quiet that the spirits spoke to him. It was only in solitude that his great medicine was revealed.
The People spoke of him as if he had changed after that night on the escarpment. She didn’t think so. Sometimes, there were sides to him that he saved for himself—and for her.
They were quiet things. Little things. Things upon which others placed no value at all. Perhaps there was none to be found except in the eyes of Tyoga Weathersby. The reticence of water. The sigh of the clouds . The canvas that is the sky. The impossible colors of sunset. The uselessness of envy. The waste of worry. The gift of courage and fear. The scourge of cowardice. The shame of want. These things did not matter to others. That they existed was enough for most. But to Tyoga, their worth was in the pondering. Their value was in their truth.
Her eyes welled with tears when she thought of the great joy these gifts brought to her life. As is the want of all humankind, the glow of the glorious connection, was suddenly shattered by the demonic thoughts that linger beneath the protective veneer waiting for the slightest breech to impose their irrational sabotage.
The ‘what if’s’ that so rarely come to pass shattered her delight.
Closing her eyes, she allowed the gut-wrenching horrors constructed on the fragile nothingness of scenarios imagined to hijack the moment’s true joy.
What if he should fall out of love with me and just leave me one day?
A wave of nausea built in her belly. She swallowed hard.
What would happen to me if circumstance or situation prevented us from being together?
Her hands grew cold and numb. She shook them slightly to reverse the unpleasant sensation.
A tear streamed down her cheek. She wiped it away before it reached her lips. She was certain that she loved him beyond the power of words to express.
Tyoga said, “Sometimes at night, when I’m alone in the woods, cooking my supper or lying down for the night, I hear him breathing just beyond the light of the fire. I hear him lie down—real close to me. I sometimes think that I can reach out and touch him—he’s so close. The very first time I heard him rustling around my campsite, I stayed awake all night just waitin’ to see what he was going to do. He looked at me for a good long while. After some time he yawned, laid down, closed his eyes and went to sleep.” He chuckled. “I think I bored him to sleep.”
Tyoga reached around and took hold of the hand that Sunlei had resting on his hip. Still holding her hand, he wrapped his arm around her so that their hands came to rest in the small of her back. He drew her near. “He doesn’t show himself when I’m with Little Bull or Stands With Rock. He never shows himself when others are with me. But when it is just him and me, well, we get along pretty fair together.”
He gazed down into her beautiful black eyes to see if she understood what he had been saying. Her eyes were calm, and her hand was holding his gently. She understood. “Yeah. I’m not exactly sure what he’s doing hangin’ around, but I know that I don’t have to be afraid when he’s near. Kind of nice knowin’ he’s close. I suspect that he’d let me know if there’s somethin’ ain’t right.”
After letting go of her hand, he took off his moccasin and shook it to dislodge a pebble.
“Come on. We better get moving. Gonna git dark soon. If we move fast, we can make camp on the top rock. Beautiful up there. A-he-na.”
The trip to the summit of old Mount Rag would take them almost three hours.
Traversing a trail thousands of years in the making, they followed a path that had been defined by the millions of mocassined feet before theirs. The trail followed the natural contours of the land. In places along the route, it would meander around enormous granite monoliths jutting up from the forest floor like sentinels stationed at the palace gates. In other spots, the trail seemed all but lost in a tangle of matted roots. Ancient trees dispatched sinewy tentacles from just below the surface to ensnare rocks in a living prison. Trapped for eternity, the granite prisoners proved worthy adversaries as a millenia of twisted ankles and bloody toes would surely attest.
The trail periodically surrendered to the urgency of mountain runs that required a barefoot balancing act to gain the other side, or the resignation of making the rest of the trek in the discomfort of soaking leather moccasins. At more forgiving fords, the creeks were willing to yield no more than dry stone tops. They climbed a series of flat boulder stairs that led them through a narrow tunnel lined with slime. Framed by a triangular sculpture of enormous granite stellae, it exited onto a narrow, moss-covered ledge that provided an unparalleled view of the Blue Ridge Mountains to the south.