The Golden Child
Assateague Island
Mid-Atlantic coast of North America
Summer 1600
A golden bronze child parted the pine boughs and stared with wonder at the herd of wild horses grazing in the salt-grass meadow. The seven-year-old's obsidian eyes were almond-shaped; his thick, gleaming hair—as night-black as the ebony stallion's mane—hung loosely over his lean, straight back. His narrow, high-arched feet were bare; his only garment was a twist of braided leaves around his loins. Around his slim, graceful neck hung a miniature quiver of feathered darts, and in one small hand he clutched a reed blowgun. He was a young Cherokee prince. The horses were close enough for the boy to smell their rich, heady odor, near enough to see the long dark lashes around their huge, liquid eyes. "Oooh." A sigh escaped his lips and his heart thudded wildly. More than anything, he wanted to run to them, press his fingers against the soft hides and feel their warm breath on his face.
Nothing he had heard about the mystical creatures had prepared him for their stunning majesty. They were as brightly colored as birds—one red and white, one painted with the hue of summer clouds, another as red as wild strawberries. But best of all was the herd leader, a mighty black warrior with a wide chest, proudly arched neck, and the fierce eyes of an eagle.
His cousin had told him that the horses were like giant dogs that ate human flesh, but they didn't look much like dogs, and they were eating grass. A bubble of joy swelled in his chest. It wasn't the first time Gar had lied.
The stallion's nostrils flared, and he tossed his head so that the ocean wind billowed through his streaming, ebony mane. His large brown eyes widened as his gaze raked the rolling dunes for the source of the man-scent wafting on the salt air. Snorting, he pawed the sand with one glistening front hoof, and corded muscles rippled like water beneath his glossy hide.
An aging bay mare, her belly swollen by an impending birth, paused in her grazing and nickered plaintively. Warily, the rest of the band raised their heads and sniffed the air.
Streamers of purple-gold light radiated from a pulsing orange sun, tingeing the sea with blue-green iridescence and burning away the mist from the edges of the meadow. Still, the little prince stood motionless, committing every nicker, every movement of the horses to memory.
As he watched, he listened intently, identifying each sound... the eternal ebb and flow of the waves, the high-pitched cry of the seabirds, the restless snorts and whinnies of the herd.
Then another sound reached the child's consciousness, a shrill kakeer-kakeer. A faint smile crossed his lips as he recognized the hunting call of his spirit protector, the red-shouldered hawk. "Greetings, brother," he murmured, and glanced up to see the bird fold his wings and plunge toward the earth. Then an odd prickling at the nape of his neck warned him to look back at the black horse.
The stallion bellowed a warning squeal and snaked out his neck, baring long, ivory teeth as he stamped the grass, then broke into a thundering charge. The boy didn't move a muscle. Not when the horse skidded to a stop, and not when he became a terrifying specter rearing over the boy with flailing hooves, white-rimmed eyes, and blood red mouth.
No, you're not a dog, the child thought as he felt the animal's awesome life-force. I don't know what you are, but you're not a dog... and you're beautiful. Hot breath scalded his; foam from the horse's taut lips sprayed his bare chest; the stallion's angry bellow deafened him. Yet still he remained motionless, one hand extended, eyes dilated with wonder.
"Are you spirit or solid?" he murmured, staring into the huge brown eyes.
The animal reared again. His slashing forelegs missed the boy's temple by a hairsbreadth. The stallion gnashed his teeth, laid his ears flat to his head, and struck out with savage rage.
"Shh," the boy soothed. "Beautiful one, sea king."
The horse's gaze clouded with confusion, and he halted his attack. Gradually he grew calm.
A strong gust off the ocean blew the child's hair across his face. As if curious, the stallion plucked a lock between his lips and nibbled, tasting it. The Cherokee boy continued to murmur softly, but his hand remained as still as the hot dune sand under his bare feet.
Equine eyes stared into human ones. The stallion twitched his ears, gave another snort, and lowered his head to brush the child's palm with a velvet muzzle.
The little prince thrilled to the sensation. "Soft as a new-hatched mallard duckling," he exclaimed softly.
Without warning, the horse threw up his head, wheeled, and dashed toward his band. The old mare broke into a rolling canter, splashing water to her withers; a half-grown filly galloped after her. The stallion nipped the rump of a gray, and the whole herd fled across a marshy meadow and vanished into a stand of pine at the far side.
Unwilling to break the magic, the boy sucked in a deep gulp of air. He was trembling now, and his eyes clouded with moisture. He swallowed and turned to see what had frightened the marvelous animal.
Plunging over a dune from his left came his Powhatan uncle, Iron Snake, his cousin Gar, and three tall Cherokee warriors, all armed with bows and arrows, spears, and knives.
"I'm all right!" the child shouted. He turned once more to stare at the meadow where the horses had grazed. No trace of the marvelous creatures remained . . . nothing but crushed grass and the lingering scent of the stallion in his head.
Then the men were all around him. His uncle grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Didn't I warn you to stay away from the Spanish horses? You could have been killed."
He tried to speak, but his throat constricted and no words would come. Shamed, he hung his head. And then a curious thing happened.
Gnarled fingers touched his chin and lifted it until he stared into the fierce eyes of the visiting Cherokee holy man, Painted Stick.
"We have waited for you for a long time," Painted Stick said. "You are the Chosen One of the Cherokee, the one our people have watched for."
"Impossible," his uncle scoffed. "The boy is not right in the head. He barely speaks."
"He didn't have the sense to be afraid of the stallion," Gar cried.
Painted Stick shook his head. "He belongs to us," he intoned. "His future has been determined for twice ten years. It only remained for the spirits to identify him."
"Surely this half-wit child cannot be..." Iron Snake began.
"Your eyes saw the Spanish horse as mine did," Painted Stick reminded him gently. "The animal could have killed him, but it did not. It is a sign, one we cannot—will not—ignore. His is a special path and a mission such as has been demanded from no Cherokee before him." He looked down. "Well, child? It will take a brave warrior to walk such a trail. Have you the courage?"
The boy nodded solemnly, and for once the thoughts that filled his head became words. "On my honor," he promised clearly, "whatever you ask, I will do, or I will die trying."