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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781452056289 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 09/02/2010 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 116 |
| File size: | 317 KB |
Read an Excerpt
LITTLE YELLOW HAWK
By Bill Walters
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 Bill WaltersAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-5626-5
Chapter One
Swinging upside down, slowly, back and forth, was making the blood rush to Little Yellow Hawk's head. He knew he was in trouble, oh, was he in trouble; first, with his mother, for venturing too far outside the safety perimeter of their camp. Then more trouble for trying to kill a deer without his father's permission. But this trouble meant nothing at all because it looked like he might never get the chance to be in trouble again, before these crazy-acting men killed him. They were holding a long, curved sword, with a double yellow tassel hanging from the handle. Each time Little Yellow Hawk swung close to one of them, the one with the curved sword held it up close to his throat, pretending to cut him. He was afraid they were going to stop pretending pretty soon.It had all started earlier that morning. Little Yellow Hawk's sister, White Moon, was teasing him about not yet being a brave. Little Yellow Hawk had just turned 17, and anytime now, he could be tapped out for his ordeal. The ordeal was his possible initiation into male adulthood as a brave, a warrior, a man! White Moon said, "You know, we don't have much food left, but the other young braves will surely kill some deer or maybe even a bison for us." Little Yellow Hawk said, "I can shoot my arrows as straight and true as any of them." She continued, "You are not a brave. You talk like one sometimes, you walk like one sometimes, but you are not a brave, you are still unproven." Oh, that made him so very upset. He didn't enjoy being upset with his only sister. If he hadn't loved her so much, he would have tried to paddle her backside.
White Moon was 14 years old and already a classic, beautiful Indian maiden. Little Yellow Hawk had been her protector and always been there for her as they grew up together. Whether she desired that protection or not, he still supplied it in every aspect of their childhood years. White Moon acted like she was upset with her brother at times, but she cherished him, even though she loved to tease him at every opportunity.
Little Yellow Hawk knew she was right. He was not proven, and not even tapped out to enter the initiation and ordeal process. His turn had to come soon, he hoped. It had been a particularly harsh and brutally cold winter. None of the tribe had starved, but food supplies were quite low and now that it was spring, it was time to hunt. Any food sounded good, but fresh meat was the talk of the camp. Little Yellow Hawk's mother had told him just last night, "I know you are getting ready to become a man, but we also need firewood as much as meat. So Little Yellow Hawk, let the braves do the hunting, and you do the wood gathering."
Right then, as Little Yellow Hawk's mother was speaking, he was planning his hunt for the early morning hours. All winter long he had worked hard and perfected his arrow making techniques. He had pounded out some great arrowheads. He had gone out, on snowy, miserable days and made a large snowball. He had placed it in a tree about five feet up from the ground, and taken shots from all angles. He steadily progressed from missing it all together, to consistently exploding the ball of white frozen water. Over those months, he made the snowballs smaller and smaller until they were about the size of a human head. Not that he planned on shooting human heads, but he knew eventually his prowess as a brave with archery skills would be tested. Cherokee braves were expected to provide for and defend their people. Their technical skills at arrow manufacturing and shooting skills were proudly recognized through the entire Indian nations. They were a proud tribe who did not provoke others or seek war. However, if threatened, they were a tough, speedy, and formidable foe with whom to contend.
Little Yellow Hawk had spoken to his father, Black Bear, and told him of his adventures, shooting all the man-sized snowballs. His father had firmly yet softly grunted and said, "Ice balls do not shoot back." Little Yellow Hawk felt immediately saddened and began to walk away, with his head lowered. Black Bear said, "Sit down, little one." He then told Little Yellow Hawk about being a brave. He said, "Shooting your arrows straight and true, bringing back meat to our camp, defending our heritage are all very important. But they are not what being a brave is all about. Little Yellow Hawk rapidly replied, "But father, you do all those things!" "Yes," his father said. "That is true, but those are my duties, my actions, not my inner feelings. Those things do not make a brave. Inside here, (thumping his chest), this, is what makes you a brave. How you see yourself in the world, and your respect of Mother Earth. Also, how you do not give up, how you respect and what you respect, and most of all, what you continue to try, even after you have failed." Little Yellow Hawk had not understood. He wanted to understand. He respected his father so very much, but just did not understand the words his father had shared with him.
The next morning Little Yellow Hawk awoke quite early, even earlier than he had planned for the past several days. Quietly and deliberately he placed double his normal amount of arrows into his soft quiver, and then snuck out of the camp. No one saw him as he crept away toward the sunrise. He easily ran about two miles from camp and saw a small rise with tall grass.
"This rise is absolutely perfect for ambushing a deer or even a wayward buffalo," he thought. He lay down in the grass at the edge of the plain area at the west end of the rise, and waited. The sun arose majestically and became increasingly warmer, and he fell fast asleep. Jerking awake, he quickly opened his eyes and immediately saw the deer. A rather large deer was casually grazing only about 30 feet in front of him. Could he possibly be so quiet, that it wouldn't move? He didn't think so, but thought he would try anyway. He slowly brought up his already notched arrow and as he did so, the deer raised its head, but was looking in the opposite direction. Little Yellow Hawk let the arrow fly and it hit the deer in the intended target, the right shoulder. The deer bounded two steps, dropped to its knees, then rose and began to sprint away. Little Yellow Hawk fired another arrow, but missed high over the rapidly disappearing head. He started running after the deer with his bow in his right hand. The deer was heading to a small stand of trees, and then abruptly collapsed. Little Yellow Hawk warily approached the deer, which was now still, but still breathing and gasping for life. Little Yellow Hawk suddenly felt terrible. This beautiful deer lay dying and he had taken its life. He must remember, he told himself, that this was survival; that his family needed meat to survive, to live and to flourish. Little Yellow Hawk watched as the deer finally took its last labored breath. Still, he had been taught by his father that a deer can thrash its steel-like hooves and become like arrows and slash a man's legs open. He waited, but there were no more breaths; the deer was truly dead.
Little Yellow Hawk laid down his bow and unsheathed his knife to dress out the deer. He knew that his father would be proud of him and his mother would be pleased with the abundant fresh meat. His mother would readily utilize the beautiful fur on the deer and make many fine sets of moccasins for everyone in the family, and others if enough was left over. Maybe his parents would forgive him for leaving the camp without their permission.
Little Yellow Hawk never heard the men behind him until it was too late, and he was staring down the barrel of a large spencer bore rifle. He could only speak Cherokee and wasn't sure what they were saying, but he was sure that he was in trouble and about to die. But why? Why would they kill me, he thought. Because he had shot a deer? Maybe it was their land. Didn't these white people expect the Indians to eat? Surely, the fact that he was different than they, wouldn't be the reason. Because he was younger? No. They were just playing, he was sure of it. Absolutely sure of it. No, he wasn't.
The drunken men began swinging Little Yellow Hawk faster and higher. Back and forth, they swung him as they also passed back and forth a receptacle that they were drinking from quite regularly. He continually heard the word "redskin." He did not know this word, but it sounded like they might be referring to him. He was slowly becoming more disoriented and thought he was going to pass out because he was also becoming light-headed. Just when the sun was beginning to leave his eyes and he began to feel at peace with what was happening, he noticed something strange. The one man who was holding the saber was yelling, and then all of a sudden, something appeared to grow out of his throat. How odd! Then there was peace and night and calm. As he slipped away he thought, "Dying isn't so bad after all."
Little Yellow Hawk thought he could hear something soft, soothing, and comforting, but wasn't quite sure who, or what it was. Then he heard his name, "Little Yellow Hawk.... you are all right, you will be fine." It was his mother. He slowly opened his eyes. He was in his home tent. He felt that it must be night time. The nearby fire was warm and felt good near him. As his eyes began to clear, he looked past his mother and saw his father, Black Bear. Alongside Black Bear were several other older braves of his tribe. Black Bear said, "My son is tough, he will be healthy again soon." And with that, he turned and left, and so did the rest of the senior Cherokee braves. "Mother, what has happened?" Little Yellow Hawk said. His mother softly replied, "You rest now, little one, tomorrow, we will talk more." He did rest. In fact, he immediately fell back into the kind of restful sleep that only children could experience, when they knew that their parents were nearby and nothing could hurt them.
When Little Yellow Hawk woke up late the next morning, he was totally alone. His mother was out with the other women, gathering firewood and herbs. His father, Black Bear, was also gone, probably out hunting with the rest of the braves. Little Yellow Hawk looked around, and slowly sat upright. He was no longer dizzy, but felt somewhat weak. For the first time, he felt that there was a bandage on his forehead. He got up and went out into the camp area. His mouth was dry, so he drank some water. He felt hungry, but that could wait. Before he had walked 100 feet, his sister and several of the young teenage children came running up shouting at him.
"Little Yellow Hawk, you are a hero." Even his own sister said, "You are so very brave and I'm very proud of my brother." "You are?" whispered Little Yellow Hawk. "Yes," she said, "Father said that when they attacked the men who had you, you were gritting your teeth, staring at them, and had not cried out, even though they were about to cut your throat." Little Yellow Hawk thought they all must be mistaken, but he listened more. Grey Bird said, "The tribal braves are not at all happy that you went hunting against your father's wishes, but they feel you were trying to help feed all of us."
Little Yellow Hawk was more concerned about his father. He knew he would punish Little Yellow Hawk severely. He had been a good son so far and seldom disobeyed his parents. In fact, he hadn't disobeyed them out of spite, but instead from a yearning to be an accepted man, a brave of the tribe. He just wanted to help feed his loved ones. His burning desire to demonstrate to everyone that he was a man had overshadowed his low level of youthful wisdom. Would his father not allow him to hunt? Or worse, yet, would his father advise the chief that he was not ready to become a man, a brave? Though he feared his father's authority, he knew him to be a fair and just person. But to wait another year to be tapped out? Another year of gathering firewood instead of hunting? Little Yellow Hawk thought it was more than he could bear.
His father, Black Bear, never really told him exactly what had happened that morning by the creek. But through his own young friends, over the next days he was able to piece it together. The white men were a bunch of gunrunners who sold their wares to Indians, soldiers, anyone. Then they would immediately drink their short-lived profits. They had camped nearby and when Little Yellow Hawk shot the deer, they decided to have some fun. Apparently they liked to drink early, even in the morning. They had captured him easily, tied him to the tall oak tree that his deer had lain beside. They were swinging him back and forth. They had somehow come by a rather new-looking U.S. Calvary officer's saber, and were going to eventually cut his throat with it. Then they would have left him, taken his deer and had a nice lunch, before a drunken nap. However, their culinary plans were permanently cancelled when Black Bear's hunting party viewed the spectacle. They had given no quarter to the drunken gunrunners. Black Bear's arrow had entered the one with the saber square through his throat, and he had dropped instantly. Other braves dove from their horses onto the other two, and quickly relieved them all of both their lives and their scalps. Black Bear had then placed Little Yellow Hawk's limp, unconscious body over his pony's neck and quickly returned to their camp.
Eight days after the incident, Little Yellow Hawk sat down with his father, who was busily shaping some fine arrowheads. "My father, why did those men want to hurt me?" Black Bear didn't answer at first. Little Yellow Hawk continued, "I wouldn't have ever hurt them. Why?"
Black Bear stopped with the arrowheads and grunted, then looked at his teenage son. "Because you are an Indian; that is why." "But father, that doesn't make any sense," Little Yellow Hawk said. "My son, you are becoming wise for such a young man, you are right, it makes no sense," his father replied. "To protect your family from animals or raiders, or thieves or murderers; this makes sense. What they did, what they tried to do, does not make any sense at all. Many of the white men drink that firewater and it seems to turn them into the worst kind of animal."
Little Yellow Hawk said, "Does that mean I should hate all of these white men?"
His father said, "No, my son. There are good and bad Cherokee, there are good and bad Apache, there are good and bad in all nations." He continued, "If you find you must hate, then hate their hate." "Father," Little Yellow Hawk stammered, "I do not understand." "You will my son, someday you will," Black Bear said. "Little Yellow Hawk, there are people who are evil, they do not think of their families, and love. They don't think and love warm fires at night. They plan murder, stealing, and how to inflict pain upon defenseless people, no matter Indian or white man. They do not fight or kill for survival, they kill for sport, and because they have fallen into a pit of evil, and can't or won't climb out. These men do not care about the great beyond, or Mother Earth, they care only about themselves and their own gratification. Man is capable of being the most dangerous of all animals. Animals kill to protect, to defend, and sometimes, rarely, to survive. Man does all of those too. But evil man will kill without motive and without necessity. Man will kill for greed, vengeance, money and power."
His father's words brought chills down Little Yellow Hawk's back as he listened intently. His father had never lied to him and was a man not given to exaggeration. He knew his father was being very serious, and that this talk was preparatory to his becoming a brave, at least in his father's eyes. Little Yellow Hawk had no idea, absolutely no idea, just how prophetic his father's words would be to him about the future. He obeyed his parents and went back to assisting his mother in her daily chores, from gathering wood to harvesting various berries and herbs. He was not thrilled but knew he was serving his own type of punishment and did so quietly.
Chapter Two
Spring came with thunderstorms, increased humidity and with the promise of a gentle, but long summer. The Cherokee tribe was getting on with its way of life and forms of survival. The winds blew out of the southwest, and the days grew much longer. Mother Earth had come alive with all her majestic splendor, from blooming flowers to green grasses, to increased animal movements, which meant more food for all.Little Yellow Hawk knew in his biological clock that the "tapping out" of new braves for the ordeal would happen soon. When he would think about his chances and daydream of being tapped out, being selected, he could see himself and knew, just knew it was his time. He hoped he was right, but had his incident a few months earlier really hurt him? He was not sure, but hoped for the best.
Little Yellow Hawk had turned 17. He had grown considerably the past year and he was ready to go on the ordeal to be a brave. His father, Black Bear, a member of the council, had informed his son about the upcoming tapping out, which would occur at night.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from LITTLE YELLOW HAWK by Bill Walters Copyright © 2010 by Bill Walters. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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