Storykeeper

  Map of the prehistoric lands west of the Mississippi River in the 1500s.

  Reviews

  A brilliant piece of writing, backed by immaculate research and a real feel for the period. The sheer beauty of the prose will keep readers mesmerized - as I was.

  - Sheila Mary Taylor, author of Count to Ten and Pinpoint

  A wealth of history and culture that will make you weep. Creating words and phrases with a poetic sense, building a feel for Native American culture that feels so genuine and, yet, is eminently readable.

  - Kathy Davie, Books, Movies, Reviews! Oh my!

  A fantastic tale from the Native American point of view. Impeccable research, made that period in our history come alive for me.

  - Dawn Edwards, The Kindle Book Review

  I love this story, and his diligent research. Every human emotion is engaged, and at times I felt like I was right there with Manaha. Superbly done. I’m sure I will be reading this book again.

  - SK, Jelly Bomb Review

  The book’s images, enhanced by objective historical writing are portals into the distant past, sometimes humorous, often heartbreaking, but always illuminating.”

  - Fred Petrucelli, Log Cabin Democrat

  Dedicated to:

  Sandra Taylor Smith, my inspiration, my joy, my wife, and my friend.

  Laura Lou Wilson, my foundation.

  In Memory of:

  Lewis Earl Smith, the source of my persistence and patience.

  My sincerest appreciation is offered to all who read, commented, and encouraged; especially, the creative community of talented and good-hearted writers at Backspace, including J. H. Bográn, who assisted with the Spanish translations. The inspiration, wisdom, and kindness of Bonnie Turner, Karen Dionne, and Christopher Graham played an important role in the final phase of this publication.

  Special thanks go to Judith Henry Wall and three dedicated editors, Holly Hollan, Arlene Uslander, and Arlene Robinson for their insight and contributions. During the writing, the music of John Two-Hawks provided the subliminal sub text.

  For their help with this revised edition, I owe many thanks to two wonderful editors, Sara J. Henry and Bonnie Turner.

  The Dream

  I was at peace, wandering a great valley with orchards, fields of corn and beans, and herds of elk and buffalo. Over the ridge, the sky grew dark. Uneasiness filled me as I climbed. I found lodges burned and crumbling, bodies of mothers and their children, men with their wives, and animals of all kinds. In every direction, fire smoldered and flesh rotted.

  Calling for my grandfather, I ran through the village to the top of the Temple Mound. I could see the land on all sides. The orchard, the fields, the herds were all gone. Despair weakened my legs. Anguish weighted me to the ground. Feeling the pain of the land and its people, I closed my eyes, hid my face, and wept.

  My cries echoed back with the sounds of danger. A brown bear charged toward me. In a moment, I regained my strength. Panic pushed me to my feet. Fear ran me to the edge of the mound.

  I felt her breath. She bit at my heels as if it were a game. And when I slowed, she struck me with one blow that ripped away my arm. The giant beast held my arm above her head and said, “I, Brown Mother Bear, wish to know what you will give for this.”

  I had nothing, less than nothing. I stood without my arm, naked before the Great Brown Bear. “I am just a child and have nothing to give.”

  She roared, “Not true. You are an old woman, and you have much wisdom. Give your stories to the ones who have not heard. Become the storyteller your people need.”

  “What stories will I tell?” I asked.

  She lifted her head and moaned out a crying song. Then she dropped to all fours and pressed her nose to my face. “Give to your people, or they will lose more than an arm.”

  Great Brown Mother Bear reared up once more, so tall, she blocked the sun, the moon, and the stars until all around me appeared black, black as eyes shut.

  Manaha, Mother-of-None

  By

  Daniel A. Smith

  Copyright © 2013 by Daniel A. Smith

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Daniel A. Smith.

  Cover Design by Littera Book Designs

  Contents

  Map: Nine-Rivers Valley

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2: Island in the Sky

  Chapter 3: One Slash

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5: Nanza, My Child

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7: The Hiding Cave

  Chapter 8: The Son of the Sun

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10: Looking Down on the Sun

  Chapter 11: Uncle’s Hat

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13: Grandfather’s Last Day

  Chapter 14: Men of Metal

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16: Cayas Trace

  Chapter 17: Shadow Wind

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19: Meadow Creek

  Chapter 20: Tallest Cypress

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22: First Friend

  Chapter 23: A Sign

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25: Woman of the Falls

  Chapter 26: Bridge to Pa-caha

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28: Orb Stones

  Chapter 29: Revenge and War

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31: The Swarm

  Chapter 32: Battle Won and Lost

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34: Edge of the Mountains

  Chapter 35: ¡Oro!

  Chapter 36: The Right Hand

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38: My First Sunrise

  Chapter 39: All Things Lost

  Chapter 40: One Circle Ends

  Chapter 41: One Circle Begins

  References

  De Soto Map

  Bonus Short Story

  Chapter 1

  June 18, 1541, the first recorded Europeans crossed the Mississippi River into the densely populated land of Nine-Rivers Valley. Generations of sad winters have passed. It is now early summer in the southern foothills of the Ozark Mountains.

  With every dream, she knew it was coming, but this time that made little difference. Manaha ran as fast as she had ever run. The ground shook as the lumbering rage closed in. A low growl swelled to a thundering roar, echoing on all sides.

  Hot breath burned the back of her legs. She pushed herself harder. Jagged teeth tore across her heel. She pulled away, but only for a moment. Claws like knives sliced her shoulder and spun her around. One swipe and the giant beast ripped away her arm.

  Manaha shuddered awake. The sounds around her were all familiar: the hiss of a pitch-pine fire, the soft song of others sleeping, and the call of night’s creatures outside the village-lodge. Wet with sweat, she threw back the bedcover and tried to sit up. She had grown accustomed to waking with stiffness. This was more—her arm would not move. Cradling it like a baby, she hobbled to the small fire in the center of the floor.

  Four others without a clan slept on the benches lining the circular walls. Manaha carefully surrounded the flame with some kindling. It was summer, but she felt chilled.

  Most of her life she had dreamed of a brown bear chasing her. Sometimes she ran fast. Other times she could hardly move. Even so, the bear had never caught her—until tonight.

  As the first morning light slid through the only door, Manaha stood, crossed her arms, bad over good, and crept out. She hurried around the plaza, following a wide, dusty path along the steep bank of the creek to the far side of the growing fields.

  Over the short stalks of corn, whiffs of smoke from the n
ine lodges of her small village rose to the brightening sky. She tested her arm again. Nothing. What will happen when they find out about my arm? No matter how the others would react, she knew she had to tell the tribe about her dream.

  That evening, she gathered with the others around the square-ground west of the plaza. In the warm months, the sunken clay-packed clearing, enclosed by four open-front sheds, served as the village council site. It once was a place of stories and words of wisdom. The sacred fire still burned in the center, but no one told stories anymore.

  Now they gathered with a common face of despair to watch the flames consume wood like so many flickering memories. Her own memories, stirred by last night’s dream, forced her to look upon her people differently.

  Manaha gathered her courage and stepped from under the thick thatched roof of the Blue Lodge. She pulled the woven scarf she always wore even tighter and marched to the center of the grounds with her arms hanging as if both were the same.

  Stepping inside the fire-circle, she turned toward the White Lodge. “I wish to speak to the village.” She did not wait for a reply. “I must tell a dream that came to me last night.”

  Voices of protest from the Red Lodge clamored above the murmurs of general disapproval. Ta-kawa of the Cougar clan, the best hunter of the village, shouted the loudest. “Go back to your place, woman! You have no right to speak before the village fire.”

  “I must tell my dream,” she said.

  “No. You cannot speak here.” Ta-kawa stood tall and proud of every war scar. “Tell your dream to an elder if you must.”

  “Hold your tongue, warrior!” Hazaar commanded. The honored elder slowly rose from his position at the center of the White Lodge. Sad eyes, set deep in his taut, weathered face, drifted from lodge to lodge.

  “She will tell her dream,” he said. “If it has meaning, it will be for each listener to regard or cast away, on their own.”

  After both men sat down, Manaha breathed deeply and spoke out in a strong voice. She told of a great peaceful valley, where she found death, annihilation, and a brown bear. She stammered as she relived the pain of losing her arm. And she repeated what the Great Brown Bear told her: “Become the storyteller your people need, and you shall have your arm back.”

  ~~~

  Manaha bowed her head. She could feel every eye staring at the arm hanging at her side. Murmurs swelled all about.

  “There are no more brown bears,” Ta-kawa shouted above all the others. “Your dream means nothing here.” Manaha closed her eyes to her surroundings. After a moment, she bent over, cupped her hand, and extended her good arm to Mother Earth. Raising it to her face, she blew into her palm. Then in a sweeping circle, she cast the power of the dream to those gathered about. A second sweep circled slower, and the third silenced the last voice.

  She spoke. “Grandfather told me long ago, ‘a man without a story is one without a past, and a man without a past is one without wisdom.’ If we do not teach the children as our elders taught us, all that has gone before will be lost.”

  “Teach the past?” Ta-kawa shouted. “The past should be forgotten and with it any talk of the strangers. The deaths and the defeat of the ancestors have no honor here.”

  “Listen, Ta-kawa. Listen all of you,” Hazaar said. “I believe the dream is a warning.”

  They all turned to look at Hazaar. The elder held out his arms and opened both hands. “This was a family in Nine-Rivers Valley.” Wiggling his fingers, he said, “Brothers, mothers, sisters, children—this is a family before the strangers.”

  Hazaar sadly studied each of his flexing fingers then slowly closed both fists one finger at a time except for the last one, wrinkled and bent. He held it up and turned it in front of his face. “When they left,” he said, “this is all that remained of that family.”

  He walked the circle, pointing at each of the four sheds. “We are all that remain. Our ancestors were from different nations, but together we are the last people of Nine-Rivers Valley.

  We cannot hold the gifts of our ancestors. We have lost them. We cannot visit their graves; there were none. We cannot speak their names because we have forgotten them. Stories are all we have.”

  ~~~

  Morning found Manaha gathering wood on an island in Long Creek, downstream of the village. The large raised open plot, ringed in willows, was ignored by most. She felt close to her childhood there, separated from the world by a deep channel of simple creek water.

  The council made the decision late in the night that she could tell her stories, but only at a fire outside the village. A high point near the center of the island was her choice. Manaha dropped her small collection of firewood and began digging a fire pit. As she struggled, her determination of last night gave way to apprehension. Why did I say those things in front of everyone?

  Never had she stood before the tribe, and never had her words been so eloquent. Could the telling of the dream hold as much power as the dream itself?

  The pit dug, she picked up her axe. She crossed the creek and wandered lost in a flood of doubt. No birds sang away her troubles. No coyote howled a resolution. No eagle flew overhead to show the way.

  “What did I expect?” she asked. “Why was I given the dream?”

  In the time between one step and the next, her thoughts cleared. A simple realization flowed over her. The dream came to me. I only have to believe, and like the dream, the words will come.

  Turning back toward the island, she came upon a large red oak that had been struck by lightning. Split by the force, the charred tree lay in pieces all about, but for one large splinter that stood straight and defiant in the center of the once-great tree.

  As she gathered a pile of broken branches, she sensed someone watching.

  “I know you are there. What do you want?” she called.

  Two girls and a boy edged into the opening. They wanted to sit at her story-fire, they said, and offered to carry wood.

  “I have chosen a place near the center of the island for my fire,” she told them. “You may put the wood next to the pit.”

  The children filled their arms and hurried away.

  The spirits of the past were with her. They surely had led her to this lightning tree with the proud splinter still standing tall at its center. A piece of oak stouter than lightning should offer a bright flame and lend power to the telling of many stories.

  She pounded at the splinter with her dull axe. Her useless arm flopped about until she tied it to her side with leather twine from her pouch. She swung the axe until the last standing piece of the great oak fell. It was flat-sided, wide across the bottom and lighter than she had expected. She dragged it in one piece all the way to the island.

  In the center of the fire pit, she placed a large slice cut from the bottom of the splinter. Everything had to be proper, just as her grandfather had shown her: each piece selected and carefully stacked. When she finished, she walked down to the creek to wash.

  Children soon began to gather quietly around the unlit fire, their probing eyes watching Manaha. She did not see the boy who had helped with the firewood, but the two girls were there, smiling up at her. Manaha exhaled and turned away to Father Sun.

  In the warmth of the day’s last breath, Manaha caught the scent of her grandfather and knew then where to begin. With her back to the children, she prayed so all could hear:

  It is not the death;

  it is the sadness that stole my hopes.

  It is not the misery;

  it is the sadness that stole my tears.

  It is not the hunger;

  it is the sadness that stole my strength.

  Great Spirit, hear this humble prayer;

  carry away the never-ending sadness.

  Manaha turned to the circle of listeners. “Some of you may have heard an elder recite that prayer to the setting sun. It speaks of a time long ago and to the loss of our ancestors.”

  She slowly circled the pit, lighting the kindling. Soon a fire crackle
d and popped. Manaha returned to the storyteller’s place as the sky smoldered in a soft purple glow behind her. In front, the fire lit young faces aglow with curiosity.

  “Our people have always told stories. Telling is how the Old Ones remember, and listening is how you, the Young Ones, will learn.” For a moment, the flames pulled her deep into her own youth. The children began to stir. Her voice returned, strong and determined.

  “I, Manaha, shall tell the stories I lived and the ones I learned from my grandfather who witnessed the arrival and journeyed with Hernando de Soto, the one our ancestors called the Son of the Sun.”

  Chapter 2: Island in the Sky

  Manaha’s childhood

  Forty-nine years after “their” arrival

  As a child, I lived alone with Taninto, whom I called Grandfather and who called me Nanza. One morning, late in the season of my twelfth winter, Grandfather woke me early.

  “I will be gone all day,” he said. “Before sunset, meet me on top of Narras.”

  Narras was a high, narrow ridge that stood in a crook of the winding Buffalo River on the edge of the valley we both called home.

  This was a sacred place to him, but the skeleton of a long-dead mountain to me. Its soil had fallen away, exposing bony rocks to the sun and the wind. Grandfather went there often to lament and to be with the spirits of the past.