His attention was focused across the gathering of people who sat on the ground around the sacred standing stone. On the far side of the clearing by the trees was a strange sight, a shelter unlike anything he'd ever seen before. And as he watched a fair skinned man stepped out of the shelter wearing a strange red coat. It was his first view of a British soldier; it would not be his last.

He was called Fierce Beaver now; he was no longer little after fourteen winters of life. He was bigger, stronger, his skills had sharpened and he had respect in the village. His mother had chosen another man from the distant Turtle Clan as her mate. The man named Black Fox had been living with them for three winters now. He was a healer, having learned the skills from his mother, a black African slave.

The man's clan village lay far to the east by the great mountains, a place Fierce Beaver had never seen. It was not unusual for the Turtle Clan to mix with the Africans owned by the colonists, and thus his Oneida father had taken a former slave for his wife. Silent Deer had met Black Fox by chance when traders came through their village. His unique looks had intrigued her, and there was no denying the attraction he had for her.

Fierce Beaver had been out on the hunt and returned to find this man sleeping in their longhouse. Strangers were welcomed and he thought nothing of it until he saw his mother look at the man. His first reaction was concern, but then she was one of the head women, it was time she had another man.

Black Fox offered pleasant conversation, and seemed to know better than to assert his will over Fierce Beaver. The family answered to Silent Deer as their matron, but all felt supremely lucky to be under the guidance of Grandmother Pebbles. It was her edict that had torn away the trappings of childhood and brought Fierce Beaver into his manhood.

The boy had been hunting since he had learned to pull the bow his father had left behind on his journey to the Great Mother. Souls of the dead had no need for weapons; they lived in peace among the small points of light in the night sky.

At nine winters Little Beaver had brought home his first deer, almost killing himself with the exertion of dragging both hindquarters on a quickly made yoke around his shoulders. The following year he brought home two deer, fourteen beaver and twenty-seven rabbits. He was judged to be either the most skilled hunter in the village or the luckiest. His grandmother decided to find out which it was.

After twelve winters Little Beaver was assigned to hunting parties that would range far and wide in the search for game. The others mocked him for his young age and were secretly jealous of his abilities. The boy could notch and accurately shoot three arrows in the time it took most men to shoot one.

The Oneida were at peace, the various clan villages had come to agreements. Territories had been agreed upon, hunting boundaries were respected. Many of the villages had begun to plant larger fields of corn to augment the meat brought in by the hunters and the other edibles that women gleaned from the forest. The Iroquois Confederacy felt strong, but it would not last.

The Confederacy pledged support to the British who held tight rein on the colonies to the east. To the north were the French colonies around Quebec, and they found support from their associated Indian tribes, including the cursed Huron. The great river separated the two until the French pushed south hoping to expand their search for beaver pelts.

The inner pelt of this small creature was in great demand; it was all the rage in European capitals for making hats. The first inkling of trouble the Oneida had was the incursion of hunting parties from the north, and the French did everything they could to carve up the Confederacy.

Little Beaver was in one of the first hunting parties to encounter these strangers from the north, but they had no idea why these people were here. The smell of smoke in the air was not unusual, except they were at the far northern boundary of the Bear Clan hunting territory. The lands reserved for the Wolf Clan were not far away, but it was something they had to investigate.

Smiling Crow was their principal chief and he led a small party of only four hunters. The clan had been at peace for so long that many of the warriors spent their time hunting; the women demanded that of them. They crept up on the rocks that would overlook the valley and soon saw the source of the fire.

"I smell meat, they're cooking a deer," Walking Raven said. "They have been stealing our game."

"Half this valley is ours, the other half belongs to the Wolf clan," Smiling Crow said. "They will claim they killed it on their lands."

"They don't look like Onyota'a:ka to me," Little Beaver said. "Look."

There were a dozen men around the fire, and two of them were white.

"I have seen such men before, they are traders from the north ... the French," Smiling Crow said.

"They are still poaching our deer," Walking Raven said.

"They have long guns," Little Beaver said.

And that was true. Very few of the Oneida had muskets, or even knew how to use them. The bow and arrow of their ancestors was still good enough to bring down game, but arrows would be of little use in a war with the long guns.

"What shall we do?" Walking Raven said.

"They have built shelters, they will be here a while," Smiling Crow said. "Let's run to the Wolf village and seek help."

It took them most of the day to run the trails to the Wolf village, but they arrived late that evening just as Sky Woman pulled the blanket over her head and shut out all light. The village had sentries out, they must be aware of some danger.

"Stop ... who comes sneaking into our village during the time of darkness," A voice said from the trees.

"A friend in need ... I am Smiling Crow of the Bear Clan, and we are out of breath from sneaking up on you."

There was laughter and two warriors stepped out from behind the trees. "I can see that, we could hear you panting an arrow flight away."

"And yet you did not shoot, why do the Wolf have sentries hiding in the darkness?" Little Beaver asked.

"Is that a boy asking me these things?"

"Be cautious, his grandmother is the great matron of our clan, Ohni:ta Pebbles," Smiling Crow said.

"Ahh, then I was mistaken ... I see no boy in your midst, just fine warriors. Come, our matron Winter Flower will speak with you."

It seems there was some kind of council gathered in the great longhouse, and the arrival of five Bear clansmen aroused little alarm. Smiling Crow imparted his news only to discover that the Wolf clan had discovered the French some days ago.

"The French may seek to hunt our land for the pelts of the beaver," Winter Flower told them. "But I think they are here to tweak the nose of the British."

They had been welcomed at the fire and served hot pine nut tea with corn meal cakes. The peace they shared would not last, the French would see to that.

"The Ojibwa, Ottawa and other Algonquin peoples have sided with the French, the Confederacy will soon dissolve," Winter Flower said. "It will remain to be seen if the three clans of the Oneida can hold together."

"I cannot speak for my clan, but I have heard no talk of joining with the French. At least we hear the Seneca may support them, but my matron has not told me her plans," Smiling Crow said, and then he turned to Little Beaver. "But maybe you know differently."

Little Beaver shook his head. "You know I am not supposed to speak of things I hear, but I can speak of things I have not heard."

There was laughter around the fire and Winter Flower leaned in towards the boy. "I know who you are, I remember you from the last gathering. Your mother has taught you well."

"I have not heard a word about joining with the French," Little Beaver said. "But I have heard that the Tuscarora have joined with us."

"Then that is good news," She said with a smile. "You have grown so big ... not such a Little Beaver anymore."

"He is a fierce hunter, we are hard pressed to eat all the game he brings us," Smiling Crow said proudly.

"It is as your grandmother always said; a child of her blood will inherit the wisdom of the People and become a Great Spirit Warrior." Winter Flower nodded. "And maybe she was speaking of you, Fierce Beaver."

The hunting party bedded down for the night at the far end of the longhouse as the council continued to meet. Little Beaver thought about what Winter Flower had said. Could he become a Spirit Warrior? She had to be joking, it couldn't be him.

In legend, a Spirit Warrior could command the spirits of their ancestors. Such a man would be feared if he could field a host of ghostly warriors. No enemy could stand against such overwhelming odds.

But his grandmother had said such a man would come from her family and his mother had shared those words with some of the other clan matrons, he'd heard them talking. At the time his mother had said the old woman was having a vision and that sometimes the words became confused, she had never said these things applied to him. Somehow Little Beaver didn't think his grandmother was wrong; the old woman was too wise for that. It just wasn't meant to be him.

The hunting party returned to their village without encountering the French, the Wolf warriors would keep an eye on them. Smiling Crow gave his information to the elders and passed along the regards of the Wolf Clan matron to his people. Silent Deer knew they would have trouble with the French, but it would take time to develop. They would have to remain vigilant until the next gathering where the clans could decide what to do.

Several moons later a party arrived in the village just as the leaves began to fall from the trees, warriors from the Wolf Clan, and among them was Winter Flower. She was greeted as a sister and given a place of honor by the fire in the longhouse.

"I come to tell you that the French have returned home before the cold sets in," Winter Flower began. "They know they are not welcome here, but they lost one of their kind in a skirmish with one of our hunting parties. We left the white man where he lay; I don't know their rituals so it seemed best. But they will be back and if they attack us we will need your assistance."

Silent Deer looked around the longhouse and nodded. "We will come to your aid, for did we not sign our names in blood to the treaty between us?"

"That was in the time of our mother's mothers. I just needed to hear it from you."

Silent Deer smiled. "We are all children of the Great Mother, our warriors will defend you."

Winter Flower looked about at the many faces and bowed her head in appreciation. When she looked up it was right at Little Beaver.

"I would be grateful to stand protected by the skills of Fierce Beaver," She said.

Silent Deer's eyes grew wide. "My son? You mean Little Beaver?"

Winter Flower laughed. "The mother is always the last to know. Your son is no longer little in case you haven't noticed. He is man strong with the skills of a fierce hunter and warrior. I first called him Fierce Beaver this past spring as the corn was being planted."

Silent Deer looked at her son with new eyes and saw the wisdom of what Winter Flower had said. Grandmother Pebbles cleared her throat quite loudly.

"Go on ... you must say it so the people will know it is your wish," She said.

Silent Deer nodded. "My son, Fierce Beaver is a great hunter. As a mother I can only wish he never has to become a great warrior."

It was a harsh winter that the Great Mother sprung on them that year, a time when Fierce Beaver's skills became a necessity for his family. The deer had run plentiful in the fall, and then vanished when the heavy snows began to blanket the ground. The boy was out for days at a time, but always brought home enough for their needs.

In the deepest of winter storms they all gathered around the fire in the longhouse to keep warm and tell stories to the children. Even Grandmother Pebbles moved close to the fire to warm her old bones and drink tea made from sassafras root and sweetened with the dried raspberries that had been stored since summer. She looked at the children gathered around and spoke:

"I remember my grandmother telling me about three spirit sisters, Corn, Beans and Squash. Corn was a happy spirit as she sustained life for the people, and finally she asked the Great Mother if there were other ways she could help.

"The Great Mother took a corn husk and formed a doll with a beautiful face, creating a gift for the children of the people. But as the doll was passed from village to village she proclaimed her beauty until she became so vain that it displeased the Great Mother. The doll was warned that if she continued this bad behavior that she would be punished.

"The doll agreed to be more humble. But one day as she walked by a pool of water the doll stopped to admire her reflection and was caught by the Great Mother who sees all. Down from the sky flew a great owl and it snatched that reflection from the water and flew away. The doll was left without a reflection; she could no longer see her face or admire her beauty.

"Now you know why the corn husk dolls have no face. The Great Mother gives us each special gifts in life, but that is not a reason to feel superior to another. We are all creatures under Sky Woman, and the Great Mother grants us each a unique way of life if only we live in peace together."

Grandmother Pebbles looked around at the young faces staring up at her, their eyes lit by the flames of the warm fire. They were each beautiful in their own way, but it would not do to say that aloud. The stories served to bring wisdom to the children and give them comfort. In this age of uncertainty only the children would remain untouched by the ugliness of men ... if they survived.

That deep dark winter gave way to a glorious spring, and yet the news from the north and east was not welcome. The French had tried to bribe other members of the Confederacy, attempting to turn many tribes against them. The Oneida had refused to listen to the talk and sent runners down the trails to warn the other villages.

But the French did not come to the Bear village, the power of Ohni:ta Pebbles was well known across the land, they would find no welcome in her presence. And so the time of the gathering approached as summer reached its peak.

They would come together to speak of the French and then return home to harvest the fruits of their labor for the coming winter. Silent Deer and four elders set out for the gathering place, accompanied by six warriors who took turns on the litter carrying Ohni:ta Pebbles. They left behind a force of strong men to guard their village. The French could not be trusted.

Silent Deer had sent her husband on an errand. Black Fox was needed to discover if the villages to the south were ready to support them. The Iroquois were spread out all the way to the Mississippi River and the land around the Ohio would be the objective of any French invasion.

Fierce Beaver stood tall among his companions. Smiling Crow had taken an interest in the boy's training only to discover that the student quickly surpassed the master. As a hunter the boy had no equal. His eyes were keen and detected the slightest movement in the forest or the smallest detail of a track upon the ground.

In friendly competition Fierce Beaver could shoot an arrow with extreme accuracy, hitting the target skin stuffed with corn husks to save their arrow points. Most hunters could do this, but not at a hundred paces, and not every time. It made the boy a deadly hunter, it remained to be seen if he would be a strong warrior.

No matter how much they talked about it, too many of the men had not faced down an enemy and had to kill for survival. Fierce Beaver was good with a war axe and knife; he would only get better with time. Smiling Crow had yet to reach thirty winters, but he felt like an old man after wrestling sessions with the boy.

As always they were the last to arrive at the gathering. Maybe the others hurried to get there before them or his grandmother delayed to make a grand entrance, either way the result was the same. The procession to the sacred stone, the sing-song prayer chant and the endless procession of well wishers who came by their campfire to pay homage to Grandmother Pebbles.

Only this year it was different because of the strange shelters and the man in the red coat. Once his grandmother was settled in under a shade awning made of woven reeds and decorated with bright feathers, Fierce Beaver walked across the clearing to see these British up close.

There was a wide space around the cloth shelters and at least a dozen warriors sat watching the British. Fierce Beaver looked across the distance and decided it would not do, he needed a better look. It never occurred to him that he ought to stay away or that there would be an immediate problem in communication.

He strode past several warriors, walked right up to the shelters and began to finger the cloth. He could see it was tightly woven fabric and felt stiff. Would it keep off the rains?

"Say-GO-li, young warrior," A voice said.

Fierce Beaver turned his head towards the sound and saw one of the red coats smiling at him.

"Say-GO-li," The man repeated, only much slower this time.

Fierce Beaver inclined his head. "Shekóli," He replied.

The red coat smiled, and then turned to someone inside his shelter. "Trent, come out here, will you?"

Another man emerged from the shelter, and this one Fierce Beaver recognized, or at least his trade. The man wore deerskin leggings, moccasins and a thin cloth shirt, but he wasn't a native, just a white trader who traveled the forest. He carried a musket that certainly didn't look new, but it was well cared for. The weapon held Fierce Beaver's attention.

"The red coat does not speak your language, but he is learning," The man said in the Iroquois language Fierce Beaver understood. "I am called Trent, what is your clan?"

The man's knowledge of the Iroquois language was good, his understanding of custom was even better. A warrior did not give his name to just anyone, this man had not even asked for it.

"I am of the Bear Clan," Fierce Beaver replied. "Does the red coat wish to make himself ill? Clothing like that should only be worn in the time of snows."

Trent chuckled and nodded. "It is his custom unfortunately. He is a soldier ... a warrior among his people."

"Ahh, this is his protection, I understand," Fierce Beaver replied.

"The Bear Clan ... they came with the great matron of the Oneida, your spiritual leader," Trent said.

"She is my grandmother," Fierce Beaver allowed himself to say.

"Then we are honored by your presence. May I inform the Lieutenant who you are?"

Fierce Beaver nodded. It would be good to know this British red coat, this man called Lieutenant. Maybe it would be a chance to learn about these long guns. He would trade a good deal of wampum for the chance to own one. Trent spoke at some length with the Lieutenant who replied with several questions.

"The Lieutenant asks if you would join him by the fire to share knowledge. But I must ask if you can speak for your clan. I see you are still a young man and I don't know if you are a chief among your people," Trent said.

"I will fetch the chief in my clan and he may speak to Lieutenant. I will ask matron if I may stay and hear your words, someday I will be chief."

"Please, we would welcome you both," Trent said. Fierce Beaver nodded and turned away.

"What was that all about?" The Lieutenant asked.

"He is just a young warrior; he'll bring the chief back for a talk. I would recommend you treat them both equally, there is something about that boy ... he will make a good ally among the Oneida. Did you see the way he eyed my musket? "

"You still think we should arm them?" The Lieutenant asked.

"The French have given guns to their scouts," Trent said. "If they arm the northern clans these poor bastards won't know what hit them."

"That's what I'm here to discover, Trent. No sense in giving muskets to the natives if they can't use them."

"Lieutenant, most of the people here are clan elders and they won't ever stand up in a fight. The warriors you see are skilled with a bow, and bloody damn good with a knife. The Iroquois have had guns for dozens of years even though the Governor forbids it. You must understand, a trader will do anything to get his hands on quality beaver pelts.

"But the trade muskets are old used pieces, they might just blow up in your face. We must provide them with good muskets that can kill Frenchmen. It's the ones like that young warrior we just met who will do most of the fighting. If you like I will ask him to display his skills and we can evaluate his performance."

"That would serve to amuse. So you think the boy is of some importance?"

"He has to be, his grandmother is their spiritual queen."

The Lieutenant wouldn't understand the meaning; the man had spent very little time out here in the wilderness. Trent was sure all those fat lazy officers in Boston had sent this man to do their dirty work. Of course they would give guns to the natives, it would be necessary.

Trent had been north and seen the preparations first-hand, the French would be coming in force with thousands of Indians in the front ranks. The beaver had been hunted almost to extinction up there, and he knew his trading days were numbered. Offering himself as a guide to the military seemed a logical choice. At least this way he could see the danger coming and choose his time to quietly slip away.

A tall muscled warrior accompanied the boy when he returned; the head covering he wore held three feathers. In Trent's experience a warrior of the Oneida might wear a head piece with one or two vertical feathers; three would indicate either a great warrior or a chief. But the amulet the man wore around his neck held three bear claws, definitely a chief.

"Shekóli ... Shekóli, greetings and welcome," Trent said.

Lieutenant Marsh brought two folding chairs out of the tent and set them in the shade. He smiled at the two warriors and motioned at the chairs. Smiling Crow stared at the chairs and then sat down on the ground, Fierce Beaver did the same. Trent nodded and sat on the ground, Marsh chose a chair.

"Please tell the chief that we would like a council with the other war chiefs to discuss the situation with the French," Marsh said.

Trent looked at the boy and then the man. "My leader would like to discuss the French. He does not understand the Oneida very well and so has no knowledge of your clan system. It would be best if a council fire was held so that he may speak to the matrons."

"He speaks for the British?" Smiling Crow asked.

"He does," Trent replied. "Our purpose in coming is to ask you what you might need if you join with us in opposing the French invaders. We have been told they have already sent scouting parties into your hunting grounds. The British colonies are ready to help defend your lands. You already know of the forts they have built and the soldiers who man them."

"The Algonquin traitors will not openly attack your forts; they will burn them out like thieves in the night," Smiling Crow said. "The Turtle Clan has seen them gathering, and the French have armed our enemies with the long guns."

Trent relayed that to Marsh who nodded. "They would like to have muskets as well, I'm sure. How many men do you suppose they can muster?"

"I can't ask that, Lieutenant ... he will not tell us. Each small village has at least twenty or thirty warriors and there are dozens of villages. Will you give them muskets?"

"Ask the chief if he has ever fired a musket," Marsh said.

"The Lieutenant asks if the warriors of your clan have ever used muskets," Trent said.

Smiling Crow didn't answer right away. They had three old muskets in the village but no powder or balls to load them. It was shameful; he could not tell this man his troubles.

"I have fired a long gun. Our warriors would need practice."

"And the boy, has he ever fired a long gun?" Trent asked.

"No ... I am sure he hasn't. But it would be a foolish man who comes within a hundred strides of his bow. Would you test his skill?"

Trent smiled, now they would see if these warriors could match the French. "I would propose we shoot, bow against long gun."

Smiling Crow laughed. "A wager? You had best be prepared to lose."

Trent told Marsh there would be a contest, and asked if they should offer a prize.

"I would love to have a native bow and arrows to place above my hearth at home. Offer them a musket if the boy wins, he will have to give us his bow if loses."

Trent made the offer and Fierce Beaver argued with Smiling Crow. This had been his father's bow; he would not part with it. The chief said that winning was the way Fierce Beaver could prove his worth to the clan.

"Name the distance and the target," Smiling Crow said. "The best of three shots."

Trent agreed. "They will take the challenge, Lieutenant ... what target do you choose?"

"You are going to be doing the shooting, Trent. Your musket will be the prize if you lose. My weapon is registered with the Crown Quartermaster, I cannot risk it. You'll win and I'll get a real native bow," Marsh said.

Trent turned to Smiling Crow. "We will shoot at a fifty paces, I have a tin plate we may use for the target."

Trent went to get his plate while Smiling Crow paced off the distance. Fierce Beaver looked at the plate stuck in the fork of a tree. Smiling Crow had set it low, about the height of a deer's shoulder. Trent would go first, and then Fierce Beaver would shoot while the man reloaded. Smiling Crow whispered in the boy's ear, and then Trent was ready to go.

The plate appeared small, and yet Fierce Beaver had made more difficult shots. Trent raised his musket and took careful aim. Wham, and the plate moved a little as the ball cut through its edge. Marsh nodded, that was a hit. Trent lowered his musket and began to reload.

"You may shoot," Smiling Crow said.

Fierce Beaver notched his arrow and shot, but even before it hit the target he notched another and fired, then yet another. The tin plate was impaled on the tree by all three arrows, and Fierce Beaver stood back.

Trent stood there with his mouth open and gunpowder spilling all over his hand. The ball and wadding lay on the ground at his feet. He had never seen such magnificent shooting. The Lieutenant nodded and strode forward, holding out his hand to Fierce Beaver. The boy was unsure what to do, and then he remembered that white men shook hands as a sign of trust. He held out his hand and Marsh clasped it.

"Amazing ... I have never seen such skill, you certainly earned that musket. Tell him, Trent."

Trent held up his musket, kissed the barrel and then handed it to Fierce Beaver. "You have great skill, I would be proud to fight the French by your side."

"I am called Fierce Beaver. I did not wish to take your weapon, how will you hunt?"

"I have another I can use," Trent said. "The Lieutenant will now give long guns to the clans, and we will fight the French together. Tomorrow I will take you hunting and show you how to shoot."

"I would be grateful for the knowledge," Fierce Beaver said. "My mother would invite you and the Lieutenant to eat with us tonight. Tomorrow they will hold a council, it would be best if we are away from here."

Trent laughed. "Yes, when the women begin to talk men need to walk softly. I will ask the Lieutenant to attend your fire."

"Will he not remove that silly red coat? I fear for his health," Fierce Beaver said.

"Like most British officers he can be a fool. I also told him he makes a wonderful target out here in the wild."

"Do they all wear the red coat?"

"No, the soldiers who will fight are militia, British colonists from the east. They will need your help, your skills. I don't think an army of farmers can match the fighting spirit of the Oneida."

Fierce Beaver nodded. "I will fight with you."

Mark awoke with the rising sun ... Sky Woman. The dream had continued, although there had been a jump in time. Little Beaver had evolved into a young man and was now Fierce Beaver. From all he knew this was Ronny's ancestor, he just had no idea why the dreams were following this one boy's life.

Ronny had been tired last night after their long day of running around Oxford. Mark had walked him back to the dorm, but the conversation had been brief. After that talk with Katherine at dinner Mark had a lot to think about and he didn't think it would look proper for the boy to spend another night in his apartment.

It was obvious that Ronny didn't need to be that close for them to share the dreams and he wondered if they were seeing the same thing. He showered and shaved then made his way over to the dining hall for breakfast. Mark was working on his first cup of coffee when Ronny walked in.

"Good Morning," Mark said as Ronny sat down with his juice.

"I was really tired last night ... but you had a dream, didn't you?" Ronny asked.

"I sure did."

Ronny sighed. "There will be more, lots more. I don't have to sleep at your apartment for you to dream about the past."

"I wondered about that. Are ... are we having the same dreams?"

"I see what you see. I think it's a history lesson about the Bear Clan and my part in it. My mother is in the Pebbles family, but I'm not her only son. I guess the old woman's prophecy won't come true."

"You don't think you could be the Spirit Warrior?" Mark asked.

Ronny laughed. "I don't think so, I'm no warrior."

"Then I have no idea what this is all about," Mark replied.

The boy might not be this Spirit Warrior. But there was some attachment to Fierce Beaver, they shared something. Mark knew the answer lay in these dreams. It would be safer to believe this was only a history lesson as any other conclusion was just too fantastic.

But which was less frightening, to accept Ronny as the fulfillment of a prophecy or to believe that the spirit of Fierce Beaver had been reborn in this boy? He didn't know enough about this Spirit Warrior, but he knew he had to find an answer...and soon.


On to Chapter Five

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"A Warrior's Promise" is © 2010 by Chris James.
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