FOUR

Long we sat by the fire, speaking in the Cherokee tongue. The old man was named Ni’kwana, and the fierce young man was Kapata, with an accent on the first syllable. Kapata was also the name for the hawk. The name suited him well enough.

He held himself aloof, disdainful of our conversation, but several times I saw his eyes straying to the buckskin on which Ni’kwana had drawn his map. I moved it closer to me. He saw the move and his eyes flared with anger.  He was taller than I by several inches, a lithe young man of uncommon strength.

He could prove a dangerous antagonist.

Ni’kwana spoke of the prophecy. “We have seen no such men since the Warriors of Fire,” he explained, “but each wind brings whispers to make us wonder. Is it true, then? Are the Warriors of Fire returning?” The Natchee Indians were one of the few who had any tradition of De Soto, with his muskets and cannon, and it was his men who were known as the Warriors of Fire.

“He will not come again, but there will be others,” I admitted. “You would do well to beware.”

“Our neighbors, too, grow in strength,” Ni’kwana said, “and as they grow stronger they become more arrogant. The Creek were once our friends but I fear they are no longer. They look with envy on our fields and our stored grain.” He was silent then, thinking as he stared into the fire. Finally he said, “I fear for our people and our way of life. Strange men come and go and the tribes are restless. Our people are uneasy in the night and the young men are restless, their eyes always looking to the horizon. You come from another world. Tell me ... what is happening?”

“There is but one thing we know, Ni’kwana, and that is that nothing forever remains the same. Always there is change. Your people have remained long undisturbed by outside influences. This may seem good, but it can be bad also, for growth comes from change. A people grows or it dies.  “Over there,” I gestured toward the east, “are people without land. Others have land but wish for more. Now this land has been discovered by them and they will come seeking.”

“Westward there are vast lands and no people. Will they not go there?” “I wish it might be so, but those who come will not go further than what they can see. They will buy some land but will take more. They do not believe this is wrong, for they, too, believe they are The People, and it has been the way of the world for men, animals, and plants to move in wherever there is opportunity and where they can survive.

“In the land where my father dwelt there were a people called Picts, then Celts moved in, and after them, Romans. When the Romans moved out the Angles, Saxons, and Danes moved in, each new people taking the land and pushing the others out or making slaves of them. Then the Normans came and dispossessed all the others, and their king took all the land for his own, giving it to those who served him best.”

“It does not seem just.”

“It never does to those whose land is taken.” I paused and then asked, “And your people, Ni’kwana? Did they always live where they now are?” His eyes met mine and after a moment a faint smile came to his lips. “We, too, came from elsewhere. It is not remembered whence. Some say we came from the south, some from the east.”

“It could be both. You may have come from the south, settled for a while, and then moved westward.”

“It could be so.”

We talked long into the night, and the fire burned low. The others slept. “This woman we are to seek? She has a name?”

“She is called Itchakomi Ishaia. We know her as Itchakomi, or even as Komi.”

“Is it not unusual to send a woman on such a quest?” “She is a Sun, a daughter of the Great Sun. Only he, she, or I could decide our future. Only she is young enough or strong enough to travel so far.” “And you, Ni’kwana? Are you a Sun?”

“I am.” He looked into my eyes again. “I am also Ni’kwana, master of mysteries.” What we Sacketts knew of the Natchee Indians had been little enough and that mostly at secondhand, from tales told by the Cherokee, Choctaw, or Creek. These tales might or might not be true. The master of mysteries was akin to a high priest, but something more, also.

Ni’kwana then asked, “You, it is said, are a medicine man?” This was believed of me by the Cherokee, for twice they had come to me when illnesses among them did not yield to their own practice. My father’s friend Sakim had taught me much, and I had learned much from medicine men of the tribes who were friendly to me, yet Sakim had taught me much else besides, and some word had gotten about of my Gift.

“So it is said.”

“It is also said that you, among your people, are also a master of mysteries.” “I am no master, Ni’kwana. I am one who lives to learn. I go west because there are lands there I do not know, and perhaps to find a home for myself.” “Perhaps your home will be ours, also.”

“If the Ni’kwana is there, then I could learn from him?” “Ah ... The way is long, and my muscles tire. I do not know, Ju-bal, I do not know. But,” he added, “you could be one of us. I think your ways are like our ways.” He smiled wryly. “At least, the ways of some of us.  “It is wise,” he spoke suddenly, sharply, “not to trust too much. We Natchee do not all believe alike. There are factions.”

“Kapata? You said he was not of your blood?”

“His mother was a Karankawa, from the coast far to the south. Kapata has much of her ways and her beliefs, and they were a wild, fierce people. His mother, it is said, was a fierce woman, and the Karankawa were eaters of men.” “This I have heard.”

Rising from beside the fire I said, “Tomorrow I must go. And you, Ni’kwana? Do you return to your village now?”

“I have been too long away, and the Great Sun will need me. He grows old, and he is not well. You will find Itchakomi?”

“I will try.”

With my blanket I went alone to a place beside a rock, and there I slept. When dawn came Ni’kwana still sat beside the fire as he had when I left him. Whether he had moved or slept I did not know, but Keokotah was ready and waiting, impatient to be away from these people he neither knew nor trusted.  We ate lightly, but as we moved to go, Kapata was waiting. “She is my woman,” he said, glaring.

“Convince her, not me,” I said, and moved to pass him.  He reached for my shoulder but my knife was drawn. “Touch me,” I said, “and they will be calling you Kapata the One Handed.”

For a moment I believed he would attack, but my knife was inches from his belly, so he held his hand. It was well he did so, for I am a man of peace and would not have liked to send him crippled into the time after this.  We walked away then and left them staring, some with hope, some with hatred. For myself, although I liked Ni’kwana, I was pleased to be on my way. Keokotah, even more eager to be away, took the lead and soon broke into a trot. I followed, running easily and liking the path as it wound through the greenwood.  When we came to where the path divided, I took the easternmost. Keokotah hesitated. “The other is closer to the Great River,” he said.  “I have reason. We will take the right-hand path.” He shrugged and motioned to indicate I should lead, which I did. We were nearing a river now and also the place where my canoe was hidden. The river we would follow also led toward Hiwasee, where there were Cherokees. It had been the home of other Indians before them and was a well-known place. So far as I knew none of these Cherokees had known us, but as I was beginning to learn, my father was known to them, and I myself, in a lesser way.

My canoe remained where it had been hidden, and Keokotah was much pleased.  Birchbark canoes were not common. The Iroquois, for example, used only clumsy dugout canoes and were not skilled in working with birchbark. Mine was light and graceful, an easy canoe to be carried across portages by one man, but preferably two.

Beautiful was the morning when we went out upon the river, with the sunlight gathering diamonds from the ripples, and overhead a few idle clouds loitering over the blue meadows of the sky. We simply allowed the current to take us along, using the paddles only to maintain direction.  Once a great cloud of pigeons flew up, darkening the sky for a full two minutes as they swept by, a dusty brown screen between us and the sun. Further along we encountered three buffaloes swimming the river, but we had plenty of buffalo meat and had killed three wild turkeys earlier in the day.  This was my world and I was at ease with it—with the river, its waters still strong from melting snow, and with the dark, mysterious walls of the forest on either hand. I had never known the ease of cities or the trading and haggling of the marketplace. What I now had was what I wanted, to know the wilderness at first hand, to wander its lonely paths, to discover, to see, to feel, to search out the unknown and meet it face to face.

“You have been to the Far Seeing Lands?” I asked Keokotah.

“I have. Others of my people have. We Kickapoo are great wanderers.” This he had said before and I acknowledged it, for so I had been told in the lodges of the Cherokees.

“No people lived there,” he said, “until now. A few came, then more, but they are very few even in this day.”

“Where do they come from?”

“North, they come from the north, always there are people coming down from the north. And some from the east. There are people like you who sell guns to Indians. The Indians who have guns make war against Indians who have none, and the Indians without guns come westward to escape. These Indians push against other Indians until finally some have had to go out into the Far Seeing Lands.” It made sense. We had heard that the Dutch at Hudson’s River were trading guns to the Indians. One thing more I had learned: more than any other Indians the Kickapoos, because of their inclination to wander, knew most about other tribes.  The Indian did not own land. A tribe might claim an area for hunting and gathering, but a stronger tribe might push them out, or they themselves might move when game became scarce.

Other things I learned from the casual talk of Keokotah, and one of these was that only those Indians who were present when an agreement was made need abide by its terms. A chief was so by prestige alone, a prestige won by his greatness as a warrior, his success as a leader, or his wisdom in council.  That night we camped on the bank of a creek emptying into the Hiwasee. It was a grassy shore with forest all around, fuel enough, and a good place to hide our fire. We talked much, and as we talked Keokotah’s tongue loosened and words forgotten returned to him. His English friend had taught him well, obviously impressed by Keokotah’s quick intelligence.

Once during the night I caught a faint sound from the forest, not a sound of wind among the trees, not a sound of an animal moving, but of something else, someone or something. I lay wide-eyed, listening. Keokotah seemed asleep but with him one never knew.

Our fire was down to a few coals, our canoe bottom up on the shore, our weapons at hand. All was still, and I heard no further sounds, yet I had heard something.

Morning came and Keokotah said nothing. Had he heard the sound in the night? Did he not think it important? Or was it a sound he had expected? How could I know there were not other Kickapoos about? So I said nothing of what I had heard.  It was a lazy, easy, sun-filled morning. We watched the river for other Indians but saw none. Hiwasee could not be far away down the river, and many Indians would be there.

“What game is further west?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Like here.” There were deer of several kinds, one his English friend called wapiti. “I do not know what is wapiti. Much buffalo west. More than here. Bears, ver’ large bears. A bear with silver hair almost as large as a small buffalo.”

“A bear? As large as a buffalo?”

“Not so great. Nearly. He has a hump on his back and he is hard to kill. You see this bear you go away before he sees you. He ver’ fierce bear.” He dipped his paddle and the canoe glided around a rock, and Keokotah added, “There is big animal, big as a bear, maybe much bigger. He is yellow, long hair, very long claws. He dig. Much dig.

“Then there is big animal, much meat. He have long nose, two spears.”

“Spears? An animal that carries spears?”

Keokotah made a sign for a long nose and two curved spears. An elephant? Here?  I had never seen an elephant, although Sakim had drawn pictures of them, and my father had, I believed, seen one in England.

“No,” I shook my head. “Not here.”

“I speak clear.” Keokotah was suddenly very dignified. “I see only one time.

Long time. I know old man who hunt him many times. He is big, ver’ big animal.

Much hair.”

That was wrong. I knew about elephants and they did not have much hair. Only short, stiff bristles sometimes. “There is such an animal, but he does not live here.”

That was a mistake. “He lives,” Keokotah spoke stiffly. “I see him.”

He did not speak again for many hours and I knew I had seriously offended him.

The idea was preposterous, yet how could he have even known of such an animal?

His English friend, perhaps? But why would Keokotah lie?  Twice we sighted Indians on the shore, and once a canoe tried to overtake us, but it was no such canoe as ours and we left them far behind.  Suddenly Keokotah pointed. A land mass seemed to block the river. “Hiwasee!” he said.

As if commanded by the sound of his voice, two canoes shot into the main stream, each propelled by four paddlers. Dipping their paddles deep, they overtook us, one on either side.

“Cherokees,” I spoke to Keokotah. “Hold your hand!”