Spellbound River

Spellbound River

“Tell me again. Why aren’t you sharing his blanket yet?” Bold one squats next to the small fire.

“Hm?” Little Girl’s attention is focused on the hot liquid in the small pot.

“You know who.” Bold one jostles her elbow.

Little Girl stifles a curse. “Watch it! This is hot.” She hisses at Bold One. “What are you talking about?” Carefully she pours the crushed blueberry paste into a small bladder. The paste will be used to decorate the faces and torsos of the young warriors and hunters who have just returned from their first solo hunt.

“Young Hawk. He is watching you.” Bold One whispers.

“Oh, hush you. He’s just hoping I’ll mix the paints right.” She dismisses Bold One’s comment but keeps her head down, hoping the heat on her cheeks doesn’t show.

“Hmph, you want to deny it, fine. But I say that before the next turnaround of the sun you’ll be sharing a blanket with Young Hawk.”

Little Girl bites back a smile. Glances through the smoke to where she knows Young Hawk is sitting. He holds her gaze for a few heartbeats and smiles before he turns back to listen to the Mystic’s lesson.

She has only heard rumors and stories of what the young men must do to become full members of the tribe. Last week’s solo hunt was only the first part.

After the ceremony and feast his mother is preparing for him, using whatever he speared, Young Hawk will set off again. Only this time he will fast till he sees his destiny. Not until he comes back and has given himself a new name will they be allowed to lie together.

Remembering this morning’s chill a fear runs through her. The tribe will move on before he comes back. What if he runs into danger like a rival tribe? Imagining the worst, she stares across the camp where Young Hawk is focused on the upcoming celebration.

“Pay attention to your own chores, not the work of other people.” Her grandmother, Spirit Whispers, admonishes her, holding the pot with warmed oil to dribble over the ground marigold and dandelion petals to make the yellow paint. Little Girl nods and refocuses on her work.

Though she tries, she can’t keep the disquiet out of her thoughts and heart. She knows that soon The Crane People will follow the sun and the herds. If you are a warrior, hunter or an elder you will ride. If you are a woman or a child, you walk. The tribe will travel till the Shaman declares the place to be right. Then tepees are pitched, fires are built. Food will be gathered and hunted. Always just enough to feed the clan for a few days, never taking more than is needed.

When the hunters, assisted and protected by warriors come back with their prey, the women will skin and slaughter it. Meat will be roasted and smoked. Bones will be dried and bleached, sinew and gut stretched and oiled. And hides made into pelts or leather.

As long as the weather holds, as long as prey is abundant, if no other clan claims prior rights on the land and demands satisfaction, then The Crane People will stay till the season forces them to move on. Then the tepees will be taken down, the travois packed, the fires doused, and the trek will resume. Always following the sun and the animals. Keeping the peace with other clans of the Nation. Trading what they can.

Little Girl has never known another life. For so many seasons she has walked with the other girls and women. Each season she spent less time playing and more time tending to the younger children, tanning, and sewing, gathering greens and roots, braiding guts into rope and making tools to scrape the hides, rendering the fat from under the skins.

Over the years, her grandmother, who is famous throughout the Nations for her intricate beadwork, feathering and spirit talk, had taught her the art of embroidery and spirit painting. Every moon, solstice and equinox, every meeting of the Nations of the People, every competition and celebration, the garments her grandmother, and Little Girl made are brought out and worn proudly. Spirit Whispers taught her how each pattern belongs to a spirit and how each spirit can be called on for help and protection.

“Hello, Little Girl. Are you ready to paint me?” She blushes at hearing his voice so nearby.

“Almost. The paint is still too warm. How are you today?” She sends him a shy glance. “Are you nervous?”

“Me? A warrior, a hunter? Nervous?” He laughs. “Yeah, a little.” He confesses softly.

“I made you something.” From her pocket she pulls a small pouch. It fits in the hollow of her palm. The soft leather is heavy with yellow, purple, and red beads. The string, holding the herbs and spells inside, is long enough to fit over his head.

“This will keep you safe.”

“Will it bring me back to you?”

“If here is where you are supposed to be, it will.” She nods.

“Thank you.” Young Hawk drapes the small talisman around his neck and smiles as he stands still while her fingers deftly flit and slide over his skin with the paints she prepared. The age-old patterns she paints on his chest, arms and face invoke the spirits to aid and protect Young Hawk. The symbols will give him strength and wisdom to return to the clan as a man.

The day is long yet passes in a flash. Little Girl and the other women are busy tending to and feeding the men, the children and themselves. They respond to the rhythm of the drums and clap, chant, stomp, and cheer them on in their ritual dances. They honor and bless the young warriors as they accept their next challenge before leaving the camp at sunrise.

The dancing and eating goes on long into the night. The children and toddlers that have fallen asleep where they sit are gathered up when the night turns cool and are tucked away in the tents.

Having put her little brother to bed, Little Girl steps behind the tents, away from the smoke, chanting and drums. She looks up at the stars, ready to ask them to look after him, when a hand takes hers and tugs her toward the trees.

“You’re supposed to be on your way soon.” she whispers as she hurries after Young Hawk.

“I want to ask you one question.” He turns her to face him and takes both her hands in his. His forehead touches hers, she smells his breath, the oils and paints that have mixed with his sweat and his own unique scent.

“Little Girl, will you wait here, till I come back?”

“Will I be here? On this spot? Or will I wait for you with the tribe?”

“Here. Right here. Will you?”

“Haw!” She searches his face. “You want me to break from the tribe? The weather is turning. The tents will be pulled shortly. You want me to …How would I …?” She breaks off. He’s asking so much. Can she? Is she strong enough?

Smiling a secretive smile, he pulls her deeper among the trees till they come to a little brook that curves around a small clearing. On the other side of the clearing are low hills. There is a slit in the hill that leads to a cave. They cross the brook and enter the cave. A week’s worth of firewood is stacked just inside the entrance. Further back are sealed clay pots and leather skins. Dried grass, mosses and several pelts finish the furnishings.

“You made this for me?”

“For us.” He stands so close behind her she feels the heat from his skin on her back. With a sigh she leans back against him. In the dark she nods. Yes, she’ll wait. Reaching for his hand, she leads him to the pile of dried leaves, grass, and moss. They sink to their knees and kiss.

“I should wait.” He murmurs. “Should wait till I’m a man.”

“When you come back, there won’t be a shaman to declare you a man, so become a man tonight. Make me your woman.”

Slowly, he gathers her heavily beaded celebration dress up and pulls it over her head. As soon as he discards it, she runs her hands over his strong chest, smearing what’s left of the paints. She explores his back. He moans against the hollow of her neck, licks the pulse point under her ear and bits down on her lobe. She gasps and sinks her teeth into his shoulder while her hands squeeze his firm buttocks.

She moans when Young Hawk explores her body. His lips, teeth and hands study and learn all of her. Her hands swipe the soft leather of his cloth aside and grip him, learning the texture, heat, shape, and size of him.

Their breathing is erratic, sweat coats their skin, their legs tremble as they fall back onto the leaves. Gently, yet urgently he rolls her to her back, spreads her legs and fits himself between. “Yes.” She sighs. He swallows her initial cry and holds still for a moment, waiting for her to adjust to him. With every last bit of his patience, he waits for her to surge up to him, begging for more. He’s all too happy to give her all she asks for. Again, and again.

Later, much later, as the black sky fades into indigo, and she is nestled against his chest, she sighs contently. “I’m not Little Gril anymore. What is my new name?”

Young Hawk kisses her temple. “You have till I come back to find it, as I do.”

Just before daybreak, they tear apart. Hawk leaves first, slipping away through the trees. Little Girl dresses and returns to the tribe.

“We’re leaving, Little Gril. Let’s get to work.” Seven days after the ceremony, the camp is in controlled chaos. Little Girl helps as she always does. During the past few days, she has spoken to her mother and grandmother. She told them that she will not go with them when the time comes and ignored her mother’s protests. Her grandmother gave her herbs and taught her the last of her secret spells. Daily she slipped away, gathering, and building up her supplies in the cave.

Finally, the caravan sets off following the sun. At the last moment, she hands her youngest sister to Bold One. “Teach her to be fearless and right from wrong.”

Without another word she turns away from the line of people heading south, skirting the foothills. Cradling the shawl in which a few of her grandmother’s herbs and potions and her own sewing tools are folded, she lifts her arm in a short wave at her mother and grandmother and slips between the trees,

Earlier in the week she had sprinkled herbs around the perimeter of the clearing and casts a spell for safety. And burned sage to smudge the cave. Now, she calls on the spirits, those that have protected her, the ones that have and are protecting Young Hawk and asks for their support and vision.

Traps set and spirits honored, she explores down the creek till it empties into a large river which flows placidly in the direction of the setting sun. Over the next days and weeks, she explores the river upstream, toward the rising sun. On this side of the river, the taller hills fall into the water, on the opposite bank a small patch of flat, fertile land is nestled in a ring of hills. Even though the sun has traveled away for the season, the valley is still verdant, animals are meandering and grazing. The river is wide, though the current is not strong, it’s too much for one woman. Impatiently she waits for Young Hawk to return.

For five weeks she gathers her herbs and roots, sews the pelts of the small animals she traps into boots and capes, dries, and smokes the meat and as often as she can she returns to the large river.

Each time she visits the river, she builds a small fire, burns herbs and casts her spells. Each time she asks the spirits to protect this small bend form the elements, to keep the land fertile and lush. She names the river ‘This is beautiful’. Each time she adds another log to the raft, hoping that when Hawk returns it’ll be big enough to float them across.

Outside the small cave, snow is falling. The edges of the little brook are crusted with ice. She is wrapped in furs, drifting off to sleep, when she hears shuffling at the cave entrance. Holding her breath, she tries to identify who or what is trying to enter. Then she smiles, recognizing his scent just before Young Hawk slips under the covers. They wrap themselves around each other. Wordlessly, they renew their vows and fall asleep.

Early the next morning, she leads him to the large river where she has hidden her raft and provisions. She shows Young Hawk the valley. The land where the southern wind drops and brings greetings from the sun. Where the river shares its warmth for as long as it can before it spills over its banks in spring. Where she has cast her spells asking the spirits to protect the bend from the worst storms and calamities.

It only takes a day or two to finish the raft, pack what little they have and cross the river. Once they arrive, she lights a fire. When the water is hot and the herbs brewed, she hands Young Hawk a cup.

“This is our corner of the river, our new home. The home of what will become us, the Pequa, the ones who have separated. The home of me, Speaks With Spirits and …”

“… And her mate Heart of Eagle.”

This is how, centuries ago, one little bend in the “This is beautiful” or the Ohio, river at the foothills of the Appalachians received its protection from the worst of the elements. Here the rain is gentle and plentiful, the sun generous, storms less frequent or severe. Just fifty miles north the winters are harsher, the summers hotter. Just thirty miles south, tornados visit regularly.

Though this place is protected by Speaks With Spirits and her spells, the river will surge each spring, storms will gather each season, temperatures will rise and fall, but rarely more than can be tolerated. They are merely reminders that no man or Spirit Talker can fully control nature.