His uncle had waited until after the Maple Festival before making him fast for two days, and then had given him a bitter concoction that caused vomiting and violent bowel movements; afterwards an herbal bath. Thus purged and cleansed, both inside and out, Many Tears was already weak and hungry when his uncle roughly pulled him out of his warm and cozy bed in the middle of the night and dragged him from their lodge while his family pretended to sleep.
A half-moon revealed their path out of the village between stump-strewn fields surrounded by rickety fences. Then it was into the pitch-black forest where the light of the moon could scarcely penetrate, yet his uncle only increased their pace, pushing and shoving him along a rough trail of twisted roots and jagged rocks that cut and scraped his feet until they were raw and bloody.
The trail took them over a mountain to a narrow ravine on the other side. From there they followed the stream down the hill where large rocks and boulders that he could not see in the dark stubbed his toes and banged his shins, and left blood on the wet grass. Twice his uncle led him into brambles that scratched and tore at his body, and each time his uncle admonished him as he pulled him free, saying, “What are you doing in the berry bush? They are not ripe yet, and besides, you are on a fast.” When he voiced a complaint after being attacked by hordes of mosquitoes in the swamp, his uncle grabbed him by the legs and dragged him through the slimy mud, telling him, “Now you are protected from mosquitoes and your wounds are filled with the healing power of the earth.”
Then it was back into the black forest, up a steep hillside and over another mountain and down the other side before he was deposited in a shallow depression filled with leaves. His uncle rubbed sunflower seed oil on his forehead, and then smeared four bars of green paint over his eye, while reminding him, “Remember my instructions, and do forget to chant your prayers until I return.” And with that he was left alone, naked, with no food, shelter, tools, or weapons of any kind, in a hole in the ground, in a clearing of the forest, in the middle of the night. At least he was near water, for he could hear the gurgling of a nearby brook.
Now it was midmorning and Many Tears sat in the center of the clearing, rocking gently in his leafy bower, his mind drifting, his song forgotten, weak from hunger and the exertions of his torturous journey; only dimly aware of the warm sunshine on his bare shoulders.
In spite of the rough treatment shown by his uncle, Many Tears knew that it had been mildly and lovingly tendered, and he was glad he had chosen his uncle to help prepare him and guide him through this dream fast, for He Who Looks Both Ways knew many things, possessed many skills, knew the ways of power, and had already taught him much.
From his uncle he learned how to make his own hunting shirt, breechclout, and moccasins, made from the skin of the deer. He showed him how to build simple shelters in the forest, and how to start a fire with the friction of wood, and he helped him make simple but hearty meals out on the trail. He taught him how to select the proper woods for different uses, and how to carve wood, and how to make strong bows of ash, and accurate arrows from the branches of the cherry tree. From his uncle he learned to make fishhooks and arrowheads, and learned that the best fletching for arrows came from turkey feathers. They even made a bark canoe two summers ago that they still took out on the big lake. And from his uncle he learned the ways of the animals, the deer and the bear, the wolves of the deep woods, the beaver, the porcupine, the fox, coyote, turkey and partridge, and all the many fishes of lake and stream. He also learned reverence and respect for all the animals he hunted, trapped, and fished, to speak words of gratitude to their departing spirits for the sacrifice of their flesh, fur, or feathers; to never throw their bones to the dogs, and to sacrifice the first deer of the hunting season to the crows so that they would not warn the other animals during the rest of the year. He learned the medicinal uses for many plants and was always encouraged to remember his dreams so that the spirits of the plants might reveal their secrets to him.
And since his uncle was the fire keeper of their village, he had listened to him tell the many myths and legends around the fires during the winter months, an oral literature of stories, lore, and tradition, that had been passed down through the generations, about how the world came into being with the help of the Muskrat diving deep into the bottom of the waters to bring up mud to start the land, and of how Turtle volunteered to carry this earth on his back, and of how Sky Woman came and brought people to live on the earth. There were many such tales and Many Tears marveled at how his uncle could remember them all, of the twin brothers, the spirits of good and evil, of the rain and thunder, of the sun, the moon, and the stars, and stories of the birds, and the fish, and all the animals. In addition to the traditional stories, his uncle also told him strange tales of witches, and because He Who Looks Both Ways had great medicine and knew much about the ways of the Creator, he even tried to explain difficult-to-understand spiritual ideas when Many Tears expressed a curiosity about such things.
And while the father of Many Tears was a great warrior, and laughed at most of the stories He Who Looks Both Ways told, his uncle always took them seriously and tried to explain the meaning behind them that always made Many Tears think more deeply about life and the ways of the spirits. By his teachings his uncle let it be known that he hoped Many Tears would turn his talents to more peaceful pursuits, and he never taught his nephew the arts of war, but left that area of expertise to his father. Instead, Looks Both Ways showed him the different dances in their proper seasons. He sang to him the traditional songs and taught him how to create his own personal songs. He learned from him how to stay clean in body and in spirit, and he learned how he must treat others with respect, especially women, the elderly, and children. Most important, Many Tears learned from his uncle the value of always thanking the Great Spirit for making the world and all things in it for the benefit of The People.
When it came time for Many Tears to gather items for his medicine bundle, he asked, “Uncle, how will I know what to select?”
“Why not start with a small pebble with power.”
“But how will I know if it has power?”
“If it has power for you, you will know it.”
Many Tears wanted his questions to stop; yet he had to ask, “But how will I know if it has power for me, Uncle?”
Looks Both Ways did not respond for some time, seemingly unable to answer. Many Tears worried that perhaps he had exhausted his uncle’s patience, but finally his uncle said, “It will speak to you.”
The next day his uncle took him on a fishing trip to the lake. There were many stones and pebbles on the trail, but Many Tears heard none speak to him. When they reached the lake there were many more pebbles and stones along the shoreline, but not a single one called out to him. He sat on the beach and listened, in vain, for the voice of a stone along the shoreline, wondering what it might sound like, wondering if a big stone sounded different from a small stone, and even more, what it might say to him, and since he was seeking a tiny stone, a pebble, he began to worry that he might not hear a small pebble calling out to him unless he put his ear very close to it. He wanted to question his uncle about these things but Looks Both Ways had already waded far out into the shallows with his fishing spear.
Many Tears began to toss stones into the water. A few small pebbles at first, then larger stones as his anger and frustration grew. Then he picked up a heavy, jagged rock that he threw with all his might, insensibly, narrowly missing his uncle, who looked up in surprise at the nearby splash. Ashamed, Many Tears sat staring into the water and was about to loudly proclaim his defeat when he saw the reflection of an osprey flying out of the pines across the bay.
The eagle screamed as it passed over the sun, the rays momentarily blinding him. When Many Tears opened his eyes he noticed a tiny white stone in the shallows, contrasting sharply with the dark, rough gray stones surrounding it. When Many Tears absentmindedly picked it up, Looks Both Ways, called out, “Skanoh! A stone that speaks to you!”
“I heard only the call of the fish eagle,” said Many Tears.
His uncle laughed. “Little Brother, stones do not always speak with words. Sometimes eagles speak for stones so stubborn boys can hear. Stones are heard better when one is not listening, and best found without looking for them.”
Many Tears could not say that the stone had spoken to him, yet it did seem as if the eagle had shown him the stone somehow, perhaps even spoke for it. And at a moment when he had given up listening, and had forgotten that he was looking for a stone. He tucked the smooth white pebble into his pouch while marveling at the mystery of such things. In this way he added half a dozen more items to his medicine bundle that he wore on a rawhide thong tied around his neck. Soon the small leather pouch was filled with tiny treasures; the tiny white pebble, colorful feathers, bits of bone, leaves of certain plants, dried nuts and seeds, even dried organs of a frog, a bird, and a snake, all these things invested with power for him.
A pair of blue jays startled him out of his reverie with their scolding. “Blue jays!” he greeted them, “thank you for allowing me the use of this clearing. I hope you will find some good food to eat today for you and your family!”
But the chattering pair only flew off at the foolish speech, leaving Many Tears feeling guilty over his failure to follow his uncle’s instructions. It was already light and he had wasted half the night, instead of singing and chanting his prayers as he had been told to do. The mud on his body had since dried in long chalky streaks, and he took a moment to pick some of its crusty residue out of his eyelashes before he turned his face toward the rising sun and began to sing:
“Oh Great Spirit, my heart is open, my soul is in your keeping, and I think only of you!
Let my Manitou come to me; let him give me a promise of power and protection!
Let me see his form and his face so that I may know and obey him!
My heart is open and I give my heart and soul to him!
And bring to me a great dream to see myself and my future!”
He sang this song many times, over and over again, until it made a straight and narrow trail in his mind and he forgot he was saying it. Then he said other chants and prayers for many hours and with great emotion as the day wore on, but by noon he was once more beginning to slump drowsily forward, with sweat running down his forehead from the heat of the day. Feeling clammy, thirsty, and sleepy, he jumped up and splashed in the brook to refresh himself. Then he took a few sips of the cool, clear water before returning to his bower to continue singing, praying, and chanting.
After repeating many times over all the songs his uncle had taught him, by noon he began to lose his concentration. He became lost in thoughts, some repeating themselves in circles in his mind. He thought many times of what new name the tribe might give him, and this would lead to the thought that everything depended upon what would happen while he waited in his bower, what might take place, what dreams he might have, and this would lead to remembering the seemingly contradictory words of his uncle. “Try to stay awake and sing your songs for as long as you can before you sleep and let the dreams come. Don’t forget to keep a close watch on everything around you; the forest, the rocks, the trees, the animals, the wind, and especially any spirits that might visit you. But do not look for anything to happen.” His uncle was always telling him things whereby his last words canceled out his first words. Once, when Many Tears asked, “Uncle, how do I do two opposite things at once?” the only answer was, “Do not think about it too much.”
And so he tried not to think, and by midafternoon, his songs and prayers exhausted, he sat in silence and allowed his attention to be caught by anything and everything around him, a leaf on the wind, a beetle crawling over his toe, the dappled sunlight on the leaves around him. He noticed how the bright shifting patterns of sunlight seemed to be chasing after the dark shadows on the forest floor, almost as if they were alive and playing with one another, and it made him laugh and it reminded him of a conversation he had had with his uncle when he tried explaining how the Great Spirit worked through all the things of the world. Interested in the mysteries, Many Tears had asked, “Uncle, where does the Great Spirit live?” The answer, “Everywhere at once,” seemed most puzzling; it seemed as if his uncle were toying with him, giving him another answer that contradicted itself. Unable to comprehend, Many Tears pressed him and asked, “But how can this be?” The simple answer rang with truth. “To know this is to know the Great Spirit.”
In spite of the grueling night hike, an empty stomach, bumps and bruises, aches and pains, and the itching scratches and mosquito bites, this test did not seem like much of an ordeal; he had been beaten and had suffered worse than this practicing running the gauntlet with his gang of age mates. Pine boughs and dry leaves comfortably cushioned him in his bowl-shaped bower, he did not yet feel the gnawing pangs of hunger, and the spring weather was warm and mild. He would feel little pride if this test came too easily; he wanted something big to happen, something memorable and momentous that would make Looks Both Ways sagely nod his head and say wise things, something that would require a brave heart. But here he sat with nothing but a tiny black beetle crawling over his toe, squirrels scampering about in the forest, and an occasional bee buzzing by his head, left with his songs and his thoughts.
The fact that he had been told not to move from the area troubled him somewhat, but then he could hear his uncle admonishing him, “You can be too rebellious; this is not the way of The People,” which would serve to settle him. A good thing Looks Both Ways had told him. If his father, Too Tall Pine, had told him that he was not to wander, he would have been sorely tempted to leave the clearing. But his father had left three weeks ago, eager to go on a long spring hunt. He had wanted to go off and join with one of Brant’s war parties in raids upon the frontier settlements, but the village sachems had decided that the Cayuga should stay out of the white man’s war.
Many Tears could not say that he missed his father. Instead, if he was truthful, he had to admit that he always felt a sense of relief when his father left the village, for his father could be harsh and unpredictable, even mean and unsympathetic to a young boy. If his father never returned, if he were killed somehow, Many Tears wondered if he would grieve for him. Not that he hated his father, but respect that comes from fear could sometimes come close to hate and bring spiteful thoughts.
Having no authority over him until he became a man, Too Tall Pine mostly ignored his son, and left him in the care of his mother, leaving his uncle to teach and instruct him. To Many Tears it seemed as if his father had not noticed that he was growing into a man, and he had been thankful when his uncle had remained behind to help him with his dream fast instead of going on the spring hunt with his father. His uncle had told Too Tall Pine that with the rumor of armies gathering against them some warriors should remain in the village, but Many Tears knew that Looks Both Ways did not always agree with Too Tall Pine’s assessment of what was best for their people. His uncle thought that they should stay out of the fight between the English that lived on their lands and those that lived in England. To the mind of Looks Both Ways it was a fight between brothers and he knew it was always dangerous to side with one family member against another, for no matter who won, the other would always hate you. In the eyes of Looks Both Ways, a white man was a white man, not to be trusted; were not they all greedy for Indian lands; would not all of them rejoice when the Indian was no more? Besides, Looks Both Ways had seen enough of blood and killing, and his heart was not in it any more, especially since his younger brother had been killed at the battle of Oriskany only two summers before.
In contrast, Too Tall Pine was a warrior first and foremost, interested in personal glory in battle over all other considerations. He had never been one to distinguish how his impulses of the moment might bring unfortunate results in the future. He was never sophisticated in the ways of the council house or much interested in considering opposing viewpoints in a decision-making process, nor was he attuned to the ways of oratory and persuasion to advance his arguments. Life looked simpler to his father than it did to Looks Both Ways, and his father had expected his uncle, friend, and best scout and tracker to seek revenge for the death of a brother. It was what he would have done, and he was puzzled and disappointed, even angry, when Looks Both Ways seemed not interested in retaliation against those who had taken his brother’s life. It had pained Many Tears to hear his father chiding his uncle when he refused to consider making war against the rebels, telling him his heart had grown soft, and that he was becoming an old man with womanly ways.
Ten summers older than his father, Looks Both Ways had taken his father on his first raids against the Susquehannocks, Delawares, and Shawnees before peace was made with the southern tribes, adventures whereby they had taken many scalps and prisoners, some burned alive. So ferocious and deadly a warrior did Too Tall Pine become that his enemies named him Night Panther.” Many of his own tribe still sometimes call him this, and always naming him war captain. While never a great orator, his father could be stubborn in council, rarely giving ground, and never when matters of honor and prestige affected the tribe and the braves under his protection. It was a great honor to have a father always in charge of the war party, awe-inspiring to see young braves gladly follow him with confidence, knowing that his father would never ask a single one of them to do what he himself would not, knowing that he would sacrifice his life for them. He always knew each man’s strengths and weaknesses, and showed his trust of them by always explaining their purpose and intentions. He was a master organizer, assigning all to their tasks; moccasin carriers, pot and kettle carriers, cooks, and cooks helpers that carried the food supply, fetched water and made the fires. Above all, because of the respect he had earned through his deeds and his daring, Too Tall Pine was always instantly obeyed by those warriors who followed him.
Since Looks Both Ways was known as a better hunter and tracker and a trustworthy man of high rank, he had always acted as Too Tall Pine’s chief scout, functioning as the eyes and ears of the party, keeping Too Tall Pine informed of enemy whereabouts, possible ambush sites, and sneaky ways to enter enemy encampments. In addition to his adventures on the warpath, Looks Both Ways was also known as a kind husband and good provider of his family. He was always the first to share his game with others in time of need. More than this, he had earned renown among all the tribes as a wise counselor and a persuasive orator. Both men belonged to a secret society of warriors, but while Looks Both Ways could be merciless in battle, he did not constantly feel the need to make others fearful of him.
Though inheriting some of his father’s temper, Many Tears doubted whether he could ever be the fearsome warrior that his father was. One thing he was certain of, however. He would be glad to give up his name, a good enough name for a child, perhaps, but lacking honor, given him in the winter when he had cried from the cold and his father promptly threw him out of the lodge, naked, into the snow, which only made him cry the more. His father often dipped him into cold water, but this was to harden him and give him endurance, and never made Many Tears cry. But he had cried then, not so much because the snow was wet and cold, but more from the indignity, and the realization of the cruel nature of his father.
His mother, Dark Spring, had come to his rescue, had admonished his father, telling him, “This is not the way The People treat their children,” for Iroquois children were rarely punished. “Your son will have a great name some day…he will be more than Too Tall Pine.”
To which his father, in anger, had replied, “But now he cries too much, and a child of The People must learn to be silent and strong,” and it was for this reason that his father took to calling him Many Tears, thinking it a challenge to his son, and so Many Tears could never blame his father for the name, sometimes even believing it was his mother’s fault for indulging him. There were times when Many Tears wished that Looks Both Ways could have been his father, for his uncle understood him better than his father ever would and possessed a good sense of humor, while his father seemed incapable of appreciating a good joke. Many Tears especially enjoyed his uncle’s jokes when his father grew angry or took things too seriously.
Once, when his father had been badly wounded in the leg, his uncle had made a joke that compared Too Tall Pine to a one-legged stork, and then he began hopping comically around the campfire, an antic that brought howls of laughter from the other warriors. No other man but Looks Both Ways could have dared such a thing. Even now Many Tears cringed when he remembered the murderous look his father had given his uncle, which brought him to the happy conclusion that perhaps it was better after all that his father was Too Tall Pine and not his uncle and teacher, for his father lacked patience, saw it only as weakness, and it was through patience, not fear, that Many Tears learned best, for he had always been a sensitive boy who matured slowly. Regardless, nothing would ever change who his father was, and so Many Tears would be glad when his sitting was over and he could go back and tell his uncle something of import that would make him nod his head and perhaps even inspire the clan mother to give him a new name, a name worthy of a man, a name that would make his father proud.
But so far there seemed nothing to tell anyone about. He noticed a rustling of leaves at the edge of the circle and saw that a colony of ants had formed a long line that crossed the clearing. Busy, cooperative creatures, ants. “Good morning,” he greeted them, “I see you are already gathering much food so that you can live underground until the Strawberry Moon warms the earth and melts the snows away.” Many Tears thought of the ways of the forest creatures. Squirrels, too, gathered and stored for the winter. His people did the same, gathering corn and squash and saving it for the starving times, and the tribe had weathered the winter well this year because of an abundant fall harvest and good hunting. Then the maple sap had provided syrup and sugar and even vinegar, and now it was the Planting Moon and the cycle would start all over again. He wanted to say more to the ant tribe, but could think of nothing that might interest them. Looks Both Ways would have known what to say to ants. Why, Many Tears even heard him speak to a rock once.
He remembered that when he questioned his uncle about the wisdom of talking to rocks, Looks Both Ways had told him the story of a boy who was returning from hunting birds and had stopped to rest under a big standing rock. The rock spoke to him and said it would tell the boy a story if it gave him one of the birds he had killed. This magical rock went on to tell the boy many stories and legends and the boy had become the keeper of those stories and passed them on to his people; in fact all the stories and legends of their people had come from that magical rock, many of those stories and legends passed on to him by his uncle in the winter when stories were told. “Rocks may appear lifeless,” explained his uncle, “but they are the oldest of all things and are filled with old and wise spirits. They are very patient and observant, especially big standing rocks. Some day you may meet one that will tell you something you will need to know.”
Yes, Looks Both Ways could have told the ants something they would respect and understand, perhaps he might have even gained some wisdom from them, but Many Tears could not so easily do such things and only felt foolish trying. As he lamented the fact, he turned his head to the side and noticed that a half circle of white mushrooms was pushing up through the leaves, their spirits enlivened by the recent rains. He noticed the tiny bites along the edge of one of the mushrooms where a mouse had taken its breakfast. Any mushroom a mouse would eat, so could a man eat and they would be tasty in a stew, but he had never seen even Looks Both Ways talk to mushrooms and so he ignored them, thinking that if his stay here in the circle continued like this his Manitou might become ants or mushrooms and the thought depressed him. A pair of crows flew overhead and began to caw loudly when they noticed him sitting below, but they continued on their flight and left him with little to contemplate but the wind, a cool and gentle breeze. And so he went back to chanting his prayers.
The bees continued to buzz by his head as he sang and prayed all that afternoon. When he stopped and sat silent again he began to notice that the bees seemed to be heading in the same direction, northwest, into the breeze, and he began to sense a vague pattern of events around him, a change in direction of the wind, the drying of the air as the temperature rose, serene events that only someone sitting quietly in the forest would notice, yet nothing important enough to tell anyone about.
The number of ants in the line seemed to increase as the day warmed and at times he could hear the sound they made as they scurried over the dry leaves toward some unseen food source, bringing back morsels in their jaws. The breeze began to blow more from the south as the sun crossed the sky and ever so slowly did the tiny mushrooms show more of themselves above the leaf cover. He tried to detect some sign of their growth as they thrust themselves up, for he knew that they could grow out of nothing during the night and stand several inches tall by morning. Once he thought he saw one push a leaf aside, but he could not be certain it was not caused by the breeze or a bug or worm under the leaves. Yet it would not be from watching mushrooms grow or the industry of ants that would earn him a proud Manitou.
A bee became entangled in his hair, bringing him to his feet, arms waving madly about his head. It soon extricated itself and buzzed on, but left Many Tears feeling ashamed over his reaction. He had been badly bitten by a horde of angry bees when he was very young and the memory of his pain and suffering still clung to him. One good thing had come of that bee attack; it provided him a chance to prove his bravery to his father, for he never once cried out or let show on his face the terrible pain he felt as his mother applied a poultice of sassafras and maiden hair fern to the swelling stings.
His very name forbade him crying and made him realize what a clever tactic it had been on his father’s part, giving him such a name, forever having to prove it unsuitable. Even so, it could never protect him from the fear of bees, and for Many Tears it was always his fears that troubled him more than any physical pain. He and his age mates were always testing one another’s pain thresholds and in time it became easy to separate the feeling of pain from his awareness, to set it aside in his mind. Looks Both Ways knew of his fear of bees and last summer had tried to show him how to approach a bee’s nest and steal their honey without riling them by the use of smoke and gentleness. But Many Tears had been too nervous to be a good student at learning such tricks and was bitten again almost a dozen times, making his lips and nose swell to double their normal size. His humiliation greater even than his pain, his uncle had made light of the incident, observing, “The bees are not yet ready to bury their hatchet against you.” His nose was still puffy and scarred.
It was late in the afternoon and Many Tears, still standing, stretched his cramped legs and reached his arms high over his head. He twisted at the waist and turned his head from one side to the other. The sun began to set and he noticed as the ant column thinned and then disappeared. The bees too stopped their buzzing by his head. A little gang of chickadees stopped to roost in the low pines near him, singing their distinctive chorus. He took the time to heap up a fresh pile of leaves and sat down upon them once again. Then his stomach began to growl and for a long time he simply listened to the cries of his stomach; low moans and high squeals, sounds that reminded him of hungry nights in late winter when food was scarce. Finally the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky grew dark, and the chickadees grew quiet.
Looks Both Ways had advised him that in addition to remembering his dreams, he must also pay particular attention to things that may happen during the night, that he must not miss whatever that might be, and that it could be important for his future, so he resisted the impulse to lie down and sleep. He wished for a moment that he had a tree trunk to lean against, but then concluded that it would probably relax him too much and lull him into sleep, and he was determined to remain awake all night. He knew that spirits roamed the forest at night, and he resolved that he would meet them face-to-face if they came. He tried to remember everything that his uncle had told him about the night spirits and faces and wished that he had paid better attention when his uncle had spoken of such things. He did remember that his uncle had warned that the spirits that walked in the night used fear as their weapon and only if one was afraid could they harm you.
At the moment, however, Many Tears feared little except that nothing in particular would happen to him on his quest, and he began to question the place that his uncle had chosen for him. Why couldn’t he have picked a rocky outcrop overlooking a valley or even a lake or river; like the place where he and his uncle made arrowheads? At least a big standing rock might have spoken to him, told him some secrets. Here there were only these three silent elms that swayed high overhead, and the brook in front of him, these things telling him nothing.
Many Tears wished that he had brought some flint with him so that at least he could have passed the time in shaping an arrowhead his uncle would be proud of. Looks Both Ways was the best arrowhead maker in their village and he had shown Many Tears his secrets. Mostly it was a matter of touch, of sensitivity to the flint. Lately, however, interest in bows and arrows seemed on the decline among most warriors who preferred a modern steel rifle rather than an ancient weapon of flint and wood. But his uncle said he preferred the bow, explaining, “With a bow I can fill my enemy’s body with arrows while he is reloading.” Even though Too Tall Pine had given up the bow, it was good to know that he was a better arrowhead maker than his father and he had his uncle to thank for it. But why hadn’t he picked a better place for him to seek his vision? He would have liked to be sitting at the top of the great falls, above the wide and twisting gorge, with a view of the lake. From up there he could have at least seen the sun and the clouds, the moon at night, crows and turkey vultures flying overhead, even eagles soaring. He would have liked having a name associated with the eagle, or bear, or wolf. Even the wind or the sun would not be bad; even crows would be better than squirrels, or ants, or mushrooms, but here he sat all day and not even a turkey or a deer came by.
The forest quickly grew dark after the sun set and he could see little beyond the trunks of the three great elms. He was not permitted a fire but knew that Grandmother Moon would soon rise. His stomach seemed to slowly give up its craving to be filled and was quiet again. The wind had died away and all he heard now was his own breathing over the trickling of the stream. He vaguely remembered that his uncle had explained breath once, told him how creatures great and small took life from the wind around them, took power from seeming nothingness, a difficult concept for Many Tears to understand.
By now he had given up trying to peer into the blackness of the forest and sat with his eyes closed, his head slumped down again, chin on his chest. It would be nice to lie down, he thought. Instead he drew his knees up and rested his head against them. He didn’t know how long he sat thus when he was startled by a pair of geese that flew over, squawking loudly.
Soon the moon rose and he could see the trees, the ground, and the brook, bathed in a silvery light. Then, far off in the distance he could hear the baying of a coyote. Coyotes seldom attacked people but they could play mean tricks. Looks Both Ways had explained that coyotes and crows could be like that because they survived from their wits and this made them susceptible to unstable spirits. Many Tears was not fool enough to want a coyote to play any kind of mean trick on him, but at least a visit from a coyote would be something to tell his uncle about. But then, perhaps coyote was already working on him, making him sleepy so he could sneak in and bite off a finger or a toe, and he remembered what his uncle had said about fear and how not to give in to it, that you could play into the hands of bad spirits by giving in to fear.
The urge for sleep passed and his mind grew sharp from his constant vigil. The moon was high overhead by the time he decided he could chance lying back, and he shivered as his skin touched the cool leaves. He placed his hands behind his head for a pillow and looked up at the moon and the stars through the opening in the black shadowing branches high above that swayed gently in the night breeze, the wind whispering through the leaves. The moon was a fast mover compared to the stars and soon it became hidden behind the black outline of the largest elm. But high overhead was a clear opening like a deep, dark well, filled with twinkling stars, some so bright and close it seemed that he could reach up and pick them like so many strawberries. He thought of the village, of how everyone but a few warriors would be asleep in their lodges. He thought of his uncle and knew his spirit was with him. He wondered if his father, wherever he was, ever thought of him before he went to sleep.
An owl began to hoot and he turned his head to try and locate its direction. He knew that enemies might sound like owls in the night, that raiders could come and attack the village at any time, and for the first time he felt afraid, especially of capture. He had seen what happened to captured warriors, how they were tortured and burned alive, and body parts, perhaps their hearts, eaten. His father had burned at least seven men to appease the spirit of a brother, Fork In The River, killed by the Shawnee. Many Tears had no desire to meet with such a fate and could only wonder how much bravery he would show his enemies if he were captured and tortured. His father, he knew, would actually welcome such an end, a final chance to prove his manhood to his enemies, to show his disdain for pain and suffering, for life itself in the name of glory, honor and pride, and he found himself thinking how different he was from his father, knowing he would never be the warrior his father was, knowing he would always live to prove something, until his father died, and it was disturbing to think of his father’s death, for he would never wish his father dead. Besides, the angry spirit of his father might come back to haunt him if he did.
One time his uncle made a big deal about his father not wanting to go out in a canoe with him, out on the big lake to catch sturgeon. His Father had loudly insisted that he hated fishing, that it was a job for women, and that fish was no proper food for a warrior. But his uncle seemed to know something and now it dawned on Many Tears that perhaps his father feared the big lake Tiohero, perhaps feared the spirits that lived in its depths, for all knew that many spirits lived in the great long lake, both good and evil. Now that he thought about it, he had never seen his father swim or even wade in the lake, bathing only in shallow streams, and though not his favorite food, he had certainly witnessed his father eating fish.
The idea of his father, the ferocious “Night Panther,” fearing the lake or its spirits excited him and gave him a sense of power, and of freedom. He took a deep breath, looked up at the stars twinkling high above, and let out a deep sigh of relief. But then he caught himself. Perhaps he was only making up the idea, fooling himself. Perhaps coyote had planted the misguided thought. Perhaps his father simply thought there was little use for the lake, genuinely thought that fishing and canoeing was for women. He would have to test the idea before he trusted it, and he would have to be very careful in how he tested it. Many Tears loved the lake, loved looking out over it, loved being out on it under the wide open sky, loved fishing in its shallows and depths, and was an accomplished canoeist and swimmer. Perhaps he could challenge his father to a swimming race. No, that would be too direct, too confrontational. It could lead to a bad outcome. But he would think about it and he was suddenly glad for all the time that he still had to sit in this one spot with nothing to do but think about how he could reveal this possible fear in his father, and these pleasant thoughts kept away the blackness of the night. His happy mood satisfied and relaxed him and made him feel sleepy, so he sat up once again. Even so, his head soon lolled onto his chest and drool hung from the corner of his mouth as his mind sought the oblivion of sleep.
He awoke to a rustling of leaves behind him. Frightened, he slowly turned and tried to locate its source, but could see nothing but moving shadows. His uncle had told him that spirits moved in the shadows of the moon, but so did animals and therefore it was unwise to jump to conclusions, to invent things, and so he battled to keep his wild imagination in check. After a while he heard a low scraping sound coming from between the two largest elms followed by a snort, a huff, and now, the sound of bees. Bees did not fly at night unless their nest was disturbed by a bear or a badger. A few bees flew by and worried him, but soon all was quiet again, but the thought that a bear or a badger might be near served to keep him awake and he thought of the story about the boy who lived with bears, and he tried to remember all that his uncle had told him about bears; that while they might be big and strong and have big teeth and claws and a harsh growl, they rarely harmed people and tended to have soft hearts, for they ate mostly berries and roots, and now the idea of a bear pretending to be dangerous appealed to him and reminded him that perhaps his father was pretending he wasn’t afraid of anything, even the big lake. These thoughts comforted him as he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep.
He awoke to a faint light and the damp chill of morning, feeling tired and hungry. Nonetheless, he went to the stream to bathe, for that is what his uncle had instructed him to do. Steeling himself against the anticipated cold of the water, he was pleasantly surprised to find that the water felt deliciously warm against his legs. He immersed himself in the deepest part of the pool, under the waterfall. He stretched out and rested the back of his head against the mossy ledge, allowing the stream to flow around his neck and over his shoulders. He remained there for some time, in the place between wakefulness and sleep, and dreamed that the stream was telling him that his father feared the spirits of the lake. The dream revived him and gave him hope that the spirits were trying to help him after all, yet he could not think of any safe way to reveal this fact, and knew that it would be dangerous to try. But perhaps he didn’t need to reveal it; simply knowing could be enough. His uncle would know of his father’s fear of the lake and might tell him about it. The sun was well up when he returned to his leaf-filled bower, and he did not feel like he was waiting for anything. He simply sat there, content with the knowledge that his father was human enough to fear something. And then he began to sing.
He sang and chanted and said his prayers for most of the morning. His growling stomach became hard to ignore and when he sat in silence he looked for things to distract him. There was no line of ants today, and neither the blue jays nor the chickadees came to call. The mushrooms, with more signs of mice bites, were already beginning to shrivel and wilt, but he again resisted the impulse to eat them. The morning breeze began to blow from the northwest as it had done the day before and the bees were heading into it again, buzzing by his head. He noticed that they passed between the two largest elms and then dove low toward a fallen birch trunk.
It occurred to him that the spirits of the wind and the forest might be showing him where the bees lived. Perhaps they were providing him with a way to overcome his fear of them, he told himself, ignoring the fact that his growling stomach was thinking only of honey.
Without thinking, he stood up and walked toward the edge of the clearing and knelt between the two largest elms. Soon he could see where the bees were going; to the thick base of the fallen birch. He paused and thought about what his uncle had told him; that smoke and gentleness would allow him to take their honey, and to remain calm, for the smell of fear would excite them to attack. But fire was forbidden him and smoke would attract too much attention; his uncle might even see it from the village. He would have to steal their honey with gentleness alone, armed only with a brave heart.
He began slowly crawling toward the base of the fallen birch. The closer he came, the more bees buzzed by him, some bumping into him, and the more difficult it became to forget his fear. His heart was pounding in his chest and he found it difficult to breath as he came within arm’s reach of the nest. He could see where the bees were entering under a flap of birch bark. He paused again and thought of the Creator and the spirit of the bees that had allowed him to come so near and not sting him and this gave him courage. He tried to think of the bees as his friends.
“Hello, my brothers,” he greeted them. “Do not be afraid, for I come to ask a great favor of you. Do not sting me but allow me to take but a small portion of your honeycomb and I will sing your praises until the end of my days.”
He noticed that the bees did not react violently to his words and he took this to mean acquiescence. With his fear thus abated, Many Tears slowly reached his hand toward the entrance flap of the hive. He lifted the bark slightly and it easily broke away from the rotten trunk, causing some bees to become excited as they were exposed to the morning light. A few buzzed around him but not one stung him as he calmly held the birch bark flap steadfastly over the opening. When they settled down he eased the flap away, revealing a coat of bees attached to the inner trunk, the guard surrounding the entrance to the bee lodge. At first dismayed to think he would have to destroy the nest to get at the honey, he turned the birch bark flap in his hands and noticed that underneath was a long honeycomb. A few bees still clung to it, as if asleep, and he gently blew on them until one by one they all flew off, leaving him his prize.
“Thank you, brothers,” said Many Tears with great emotion, so happy and relieved was he. “I will not forget your generosity, and promise never to reveal the location of your lodge.”
As he returned to his bower he wiped the sweat from his brow, smearing some of the sticky honey in his hair. At first he thought of washing it off in the stream, but then changed his mind, laughing. It was too precious to wash away, a blessing, and he reclined on the leaves, feeling very proud of himself. He did not feel his hunger, for tonight he was filled with a sense of accomplishment. He felt he would never be afraid again, and resolved that he would give the honey to his friend, Two Horns, when he returned. Yet he soon realized that he had experienced nothing that would merit a name to be proud of. Overcoming his fear of bees was not accomplishment enough for a warrior, for what name might that give him, “Not Afraid of Bees?” No, he would remain forever the laughingstock of the clan.
His newfound sense of himself began to wane as the sky grew dark, and soon his head began to slump against his chest. He turned his attention to the sounds in the night, but heard only the wind in the trees and the gurgling brook. No owls hooted, no coyotes bayed at the moon that night. He forced himself to hold his head up, to keep his eyes open, but even the shadows made by the moonlight failed to stir his imagination into visions of spirits or demons, so weak and sleepy was he. He lay back on the cool leaves and once again turned his attention to the stars in the opening above him. He almost drifted off to sleep when a shooting star flashed across the sky, and for a time this excited him and he wondered what omen it might portend. But even this event failed to stir his imagination for long and he soon curled up in his bower and fell into a deep sleep.
He dreamt of being out on the big lake. It was night and he was paddling the canoe that his uncle had stolen from a northern Algonquin camp two summers before. When he reached the middle of the lake he heard the beating of wings, and there, over his head, hovered the silhouette of a giant black bat, its wings blocking out the stars and the moon. It swooped down and Many Tears tried to hide in the bottom of the boat. Then he felt its wings flapping against his forehead.
Many Tears realized he was no longer dreaming as he awoke to the sensation of having his forehead licked. Just as in his dream he could not see the stars or the moon, because a large creature hovered over him. Not a giant dream bat, fearful enough, but a large bear, standing over him with its belly hair brushing his chest. Many Tears froze in fear as the strong wet tongue slurped at his hair. He closed his eyes and held his breath and hoped the bear would not eat him. Then he heard it sniff and realized it had come for the honey. It stepped over him as if he was of no more concern than a fallen log. Only then did Many Tears dare to open his eyes to see the mountainous creature beside him, slurping up the broken fragments of the honeycomb. A big yellow moon shone directly overhead, and when Many Tears turned his head he saw the great mound of fur, the largest bear he had ever seen. It was not black or brown like most bears, but yellow, like the moon, and Many Tears had to stifle the urge to sing a victory song, so glorious was the feeling of lying on the ground so close to this great magical creature, his emotions a mixture of fear and conquest. He wanted to thank the bear for granting this Manitou, this visit to him in his time of desperate need, but he held his tongue. Uncertain if it was a spirit bear or a real bear, Many Tears reached out and pinched between his fingers a thick tuft of fur on the back of the bear’s leg. But then his fear returned and prudence dictated that he remain silent and still, to let the bear, magical or not, go as it had come and not draw undue attention to himself. Finally satisfied that it had licked up all the honey, the bear ambled away, leaving Many Tears with a long tuft of fur between his fingers.
Many Tears waited until he was certain the bear had left the area before he sat up and took a deep breath, thrilled to his core. A great and powerful bear had come to visit, a yellow bear at that, and had stood over him without harming him, even leaving him with a trophy of its hair. It was a great omen and a powerful Manitou. “I will watch mushrooms grow until you come for me, uncle,” he said aloud, uncaring if nothing else happened, for now he had something wonderful to tell his uncle. His excitement over the incident kept him awake all night and kept him trying to visualize the bear beside him, it’s giant form, the yellow of its hair. His mind was racing and he thought many thoughts. And he felt, in turns, grateful as well as guilty. He grew fearful that he had been given a Manitou too powerful for him, that he would prove to be unworthy, making the bears visit a curse to him. It had happened before that a young warrior would dangerously overextend himself trying to live up to excessive expectations. He also thought of brave and fantastic things he might have done with the bear. Perhaps he could have ridden the bear and it might have taken him on a journey to faraway places, perhaps taken him to spirit worlds, or among the stars. He feared that he may have wasted an opportunity, squandered the power of the great bear, and thought that at least he could have spoken to it. Perhaps it was, after all, a magical creature and he could have asked it questions and have been granted secret wisdom. And then he thought of Under the Rocks, and of how he had failed miserably in his dream fast and was made the butt of jokes, a slow and dim-witted man, never to be a warrior or go on a raiding party, but always left behind to help the women. So Many Tears thanked his Manitou for showing himself, convinced that the great bear would forever act as his benefactor and protector, an Oki as powerful as the panther.” Knowing this, he fell into a smug and satisfied sleep.
It was to a chill wind and rain that he awoke. His hunger was acute and he felt weak and lightheaded. He tried piling leaves about his naked body, but still he lay there shivering and miserable, the thought of the great yellow bear far away and somehow unreal. Perhaps he had only dreamed the bear. But there was the tuft of light brown hair still clutched in his hand, and when he looked for the honeycomb he found the strip of bark that it been attached to, torn and licked clean.
He lay there under a thin layer of leaves for most of the day, wet, cold and clammy, thirsty and hungry, sleeping only fitfully and dreaming strange dreams. He dreamed of hard winds blowing, of clouds passing swiftly overhead, and dropping a heavy rain. Then the rain turned into fire, falling on the corn, the beans, the orchards, the village. And then he saw people fleeing and then starving in the winter with no corn, with no food for anyone; people were dying in the snow without shelter. He saw all this as if he were peering down from a cloud high in the sky. Then, as the starving people vanished into the forest he was out on the big lake, hovering somehow over the deep, dark waters at night, the black depths of the lake stretching to infinity below him, with millions of stars reflecting off the water. When he realized that no canoe held him up, he plunged into the cold water and sank. Though an excellent swimmer, he kept sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, holding his breath. It seemed the harder he stroked, the deeper he sank, until he reached the bottom and then the mud clutched at him, sucking him down. A big snapping turtle appeared before him and began laughing at his predicament, laughing so hard it fell out of its shell, which made Many Tears laugh too, in spite of himself, and he awoke with a start, gasping for air, for he had been holding his breath in his sleep. It was still raining and he piled more leaves around him and they stuck to his wet skin. Though relieved to be free of the dream world he shivered and felt haunted by the terrible things he had seen there, and thought that perhaps his father was not so foolish to be afraid of the big lake after all.
He tried remembering all he could of his dreams, knowing that his uncle would want a complete report, but there was much that he could not remember and his hunger and his cold and shivering body was a distraction. He noticed a new row of mushrooms sprouting out of the leaves at the edge of the rock circle, brought out by the new rains, it seemed. He could have easily eaten all the mushrooms, more than a dozen within easy reach. He knew they would take away his hunger, but he refrained and held to his fast, held as well by the gratitude he felt for the bear’s visit that made any discomfort or tribulation of little consequence.
The rain thankfully subsided by evening and when the chickadees returned to roost in the low pines, Many Tears was much cheered by their happy chattering. At least the rain had washed away his coating of dried mud, but it was in fact his miserable condition, his spirit worn down by hunger, discomfort, and lack of sleep that made him giddy enough to laugh and joke with the chickadees. “Hello again, brothers,” he greeted them. “Have you seen a great yellow bear in your travels?” He proudly held up the tuft of light brown hair to the orange glow of the sunset and saw how it sparkled with highlights of yellow and gold. He spoke to the chickadees until the sky grew dark and they became quiet, and then his talk became mutters before he once again drifted into a world of dreams. One vision in particular seemed to visit him throughout the night, a nightmarish dream wherein a tall, skeleton-man kept wandering in and out of snowstorms with a withered bundle of corn in one hand and a bloody human leg in the other that he gnawed greedily upon. When Many Tears awoke to the rising sun, there was his uncle crouched beside him, wrapped in his red blanket, building a fire.