THEO
DURING MY FIRST YEAR in America, nineteen thirty-three, I was a good student of Solomon’s.
The Saturday just before my eleventh birthday I hurriedly did my chores, then sprang off the back porch and ran to his hut. Most summer days were spent with him, but this day was to be a special one. It was the day I was to become a warrior, announce my warrior name.
Anxious as I was, he made me sit at his hickory table and wait. Wiggling my legs, tapping my thumbs, looking around while he fidgeted with his baskets. His cabin was filled with shipwreck memorabilia—beeswax, oars, ship odds and ends. He was rumored to have found gold from one of the lost Spanish galleons. I never saw a sign of it—and I looked.
Finally, we set out for our ritual climb up the sixteen-hundred-foot peak of Manzanita’s sacred mountain, Neahkahnie, which means “place of the deity.” We made a circle of rocks and built a small fire. He lit his rolled tobacco leaves, the length of a corncob, and placed them on a log causing the fire to spit, spatter, and crackle. We looked out fifty miles over the shimmering blue-grey waters of the Pacific Ocean. Three eagles soared above the ancient Sitkas.
Below us, shrouded in red maples, zigzagged the long dirt path to Manzanita. Behind us, jagged old-growth spruces dripped with moss. In the shadows of one tree I saw the dark eyes of Solomon’s spirit wolf watching us—above him, a black raven. I’d seen them together before. Right then I decided to alter the warrior name I’d thought long and hard on.
The evergreens swayed to the whispers of Solomon’s Great Grandfather, who I knew as the wind, or my Catholic mother’s God. We stood in silence. Tobacco smoke filled my senses. He motioned for me to sit on the ground. I did, folding my legs like his; waited for him to speak.
“Eagle flies high,” Solomon said as he pointed to the three eagles that circled in the cloudless sky. “Sees farther than all creatures . . . Eagle is messenger to Creator. To hold or wear Eagle feather causes Creator to take notice . . . This feather honors Creator in the highest.” He took a large eagle feather from his suede medicine bundle—it was from the hallowed headdress of his father’s father—and with both hands held it up to the sky; a sacred offering. Then he lowered it, smoothed the tip with his sinewy fingers, and said, “This gift honors receiver with great love and respect.” He looked me over; my spine stiffened. “First step to become warrior.” Prisms of gold light flickered in his dark eyes. “When man becomes warrior, warrior heart drums in that man, rest of his days.” He set the feather down on his medicine bag, took a burning ember from the fire, and held it in his hand.
“Do you remember your lessons . . . what it means to be a warrior?”
“To seek truth,” I said. “Protect the weak, honor the pain of others, respect the earth and all living things, fight for justice, atone for death, and understand the cost.”
“And the cost?”
“A life for a life.”
“The price?”
“Eternal vigilance, sacrifice so others may have peace, love, and family.”
“A warrior’s duty?”
“A warrior is responsible for the garden of life.”
“The reward?”
“Hope, internal vision, a better future.”
“Good,” he said, then placed that hot coal in my hand. “That fire now burns in you.”
Without flinching I stared at my blackened palm, felt the burn on my skin marking me.
“Know who you are,” he said. “Know that fire in hand now grows in your heart and lives in your blood. A warrior owns his soul. No man can take your soul or poison your mind; silence your heart. A warrior is forever fierce, forever awake, forever alive in his task. Now, close your eyes and call on your spirit power; announce your warrior name.”
I closed my eyes tight, tilted my head to the sky, and called out, “I am Raven Two Fists! A warrior!” Then opened my eyes. That raven now perched on a tree limb tilted his head toward me, took flight and circled, swooped down, and then perched on the log at my side.
“Duh-HOOTS-nuh . . . Good name,” Solomon said, holding the white-tipped feather.
Thunderstruck and trembling, I bowed my head, raised up my hands, and accepted the grand treasure, understanding that what I did in Ireland, what Mamaí was so afraid of, was not a thing of shame or something for which to be forgiven, but a warrior’s act. I held my head high.
“Sacred tobacco must be burnt.” Solomon blew into the tobacco bundle. White smoke spiraled to the sky. “In this way Eagle and Creator are notified of name of new holder of feather. Creator,” he called to the sky. His hair fluttered in the wind. “This boy Theo is now warrior, Raven Two Fists.” He closed his eyes and laid his strong hand on my head. A bolt of intoxicating energy spiked down my back, taking my breath away.
“It is done,” he said and abruptly removed his hand. “Creator watch over you now.”
We smothered the fire with dirt and damp leaves and prepared to descend the path home. I wanted to run, anxious to tell Mamaí and Imogene. Da wouldn’t have cared.
Solomon pointed up to the tree and said, “That Raven . . . he waits for you.” He wrapped a rag around my bleeding palm. “There are many things beyond our knowledge. It is power of the unknown at work. That Raven, he is your spirit animal. He sees your long journey. Day will come; he will lead you back to this holy place.”