Ambient light drifted around Black Soil so gradually that he could not pinpoint the moment between feeling the shapes around him, thinking of the layout, and then seeing it. He had sat up all through the darkness as the others had stood around him, then crouched, then lain down and drifted away from this room into their own private darknesses. There was no drifting away for him. He was moving with the ship, as aware of the planks beneath his feet, the sloshing of a wave on the deck above as though he were crouched in battle position deep in the forest. Horned Owl was one of those shapes in the room. He too had drifted off, but he would not be coming back. Black Soil was responsible for the body of Horned Owl.
“Black Soil,” a soft voice from the shape in front of him.
“Yes, Turtle Egg.”
“We didn’t finish the initiation, maybe that’s why Horned Owl died.”
“I had planned to finish the ceremony back on shore, on our own land, with our feet planted on the land we had sworn to protect,” he stopped, not sure he could go on.
“Tell us about your ceremony, when you became Black Soil. It would help the men to hear about that time – we miss our home.”
“We waited three moons with the light fading, and three moons with the returning of the sun. Then we gathered in the great swamp in celebration,” began Black Soil, the men sitting before him in the dim strands of light, “On the last day of the full moon, we stayed up all night. A fog had rolled into the swampland with the warming weather, and the moonlight hovered in the air above us. The medicine man whooped and swayed around the fire, the smoke from the passed pipe hung in its own cloud before joining the fog around us. The elder began to beat a big drum. He thumped it just once each time the medicine man passed in front of him. We young warriors huddled together, joking and laughing, puffing on the shared pipe. The elder began to hit the drum when the medicine man was on the far side of the fire, then again when he passed in front of the drum. The medicine man continued, around and around the fire, lifting his arms over his head, lowering them, lifting and singing his song with his breath, singing his song to himself, lowering his arms and turning, spinning around entirely, and then continuing along the great circle before the fire. Now the elder beat the drum four times during the circle, four times to match the sun, the moon, the stars, the land beneath us. The words of the medicine man’s song came to our ears now, and we began to listen.
‘The will of my people, the keeper of the story, the future of every trail, every stream, every rock, every path, every road, the caller of the rage of the Great Spirit, the will of my people, the keeper of the story, the future of every trail, every stream, every rock, every path, every road, the caller of the rage of the Great Spirit.’
Over and over he sang, his voice clear, calling out over the cracking of the wood in the fire. His steps sure, his movements as steady as the wheel of the star pattern dancing with the moon above us. The drumbeat quickened, four times a circle, eight times a circle. The medicine man passed in front of us, and this time he pointed to the warrior on my left and beckoned for him to come and join. Twelve times, sixteen times beat the drum. Each time the medicine man passed in front of us, he pointed to another warrior, who joined the trail of men now all circling with the medicine man, matching his movements, their steps speeding to keep time with the beating of the drum.
‘The will of my people, the keeper of the story, the future of every trail, every stream, every rock, every path, every road, the caller of the rage of the Great Spirit,’ they all sang, louder and faster.
I was the last one, sitting by myself and watching the circle, the shapes of the men as they passed in front of the fire, the beating of the drum shaking me in my place. Still the medicine man sang, lifting his arms as he spun, lowering them and whooping deep in his chest, raising them again, around and around. I was lost in the spectacle in front of me, I knew not where I was or how much time had passed. I forgot myself, my body sitting by itself no longer belonged to me, so enthralled was I with the motion, the drum, the chanting in front of me, circling around like the motion of the Great Spirit, circling around us, over us, through us. The medicine man passed in front of me again, but this time he raised both his arms up, let out a cry and stopped. The elder laid his hand on the skin of the drum, silencing it. The warriors stood still in their trail behind the medicine man, who lowered his arms and began to chant:
‘The will of my people, the keeper of the story, the future of every trail, every stream, every rock, every path, every road…’ he stopped again, and raised his left arm and pointed at me, ‘the caller of the rage of the Great Spirit.’ Silence. A log popped in the fire behind him, the full moon was setting. Still the drum did not beat, and the medicine man did not move in dance around the fire.
He began again,’The will of my people, the keeper of the story, the future of every trail, every stream, every rock, every path, every road.’ This time, he raised his left arm and pointed at me, and as he did so, so did the warrior next to him, and they both chanted, ‘The caller of the rage of the Great Spirit.’ Silence. A breath, two breaths, an owl somewhere in the distance beyond the swamp. ‘The will of my people, the keeper of the story, the future of every trail, every stream, every rock, every path, every road.’ All the warriors lifted their arms and pointed at me with the medicine man, ‘The caller of the rage of the Great Spirit,’ they chanted as one. They all stood like that, pointing at me, for several breaths. The medicine man lowered his arm, and the warriors matched him. Behind him, the elder tapped the big drum with the flat of his hand, the dull low sound of it startled the night.
Now again the medicine man began his journey around the fire, like a star with a tail moving across the night sky, he chanted and swayed, the warriors behind him chanting and swaying, the medicine man spun around in small steps, raising his arms up over his head, lowered them with a whoop and call. The warriors matched him, the elder thumped the big drum with a beater, faster and faster. The fire was low, the moon had set, leaving the air around us the deep black before dawn. They circled before me, faster and faster, chanting, and again I lost myself to their movement. How many times did they pass before me? Four times, eight times, twelve times, I did not know myself anymore. A great log, balanced as it burned on top of smaller branches, tumbled with a great crack into the heart of the fire and glowed orange. The medicine man and the warriors blocked out the light of the fire as they passed in front of me, and this time, the medicine man beckoned me to join. I stood up from the log we had all begun the night on, passing the pipe along with our nervous laughter. My feet tingled, knees stiff from stillness.
I began to move to the end of the line, but the medicine man shook his head, and pointed to the space in front of him. I jumped in, my feet matching the beat of the drum, my arms rising and falling as I had seen the medicine man do over and over through the night. We chanted and swayed, around and around the dying fire. I could not see the medicine man, or the other warriors, but instead, I began to feel them behind me, the power of their movements adding power to my own, until my legs were as strong as all the legs together, my arms rising up like all the arms rising up together, my voice the voice of many men. Our chanting continued, but now I heard the medicine man’s voice in my ear, talking only to me, ‘You are a Man of Great Honor, you can feel the spirits of your brother warriors behind you. You travel in a circle, like the circle of the Great Spirit, and so what is behind you is in front of you. What has happened will happen again. The warriors behind you are the warriors in front of you. Circling, circling like the path of the Great Spirit. You are a Man of Great Honor, traveling in the circle of the warrior. When you need the rage of the Great Spirit, you will enter his circle. All the warriors will be behind you. All the warriors will be in front of you. What has happened before will happen again. You will be in the Great Spirit’s circle. You will call the rage.’
And so we passed the night, until the drum beat slower and slower, and we slowed our movements to stillness. The fire had gone out, and the dawn light was no brighter than the light you see in this room around you now. We stood in a line, shoulder to shoulder, in the same order that the medicine man had called us up in the night before. The elder stood before the first warrior, the medicine man behind him, holding the half shell of a gourd in his right hand.
‘What is your name?’ Asked the elder.
‘I am Oak Bark,’ answered the warrior.
‘Oak Bark is a Man of Great Honor,’ answered the elder. The medicine man stepped to his side, and dipping two fingers into the gourd, he smeared a white line across Oak Bark’s face. ‘You trained with Planted Corn, a strong, young warrior, quick on his feet,’ said the elder, turning to address the rest of us, ‘Now he has taken root into our tradition, he has sprouted branches to encompass all the people of our tribe. His skin may be broken in battle, but it will grow back, like the husks of the new corn in spring. He is strong and steady. Oak Bark is the will of our people.’ The elder and the medicine man moved to the next warrior.
‘What is your name?’ Asked the elder.
“I am Two Eagle,’ answered the warrior.
‘Two Eagle is a Man of Great Honor,’ answered the elder. The medicine man smeared the white line across his face. ‘You have trained with Single Feather, brave and true of heart. Single Feather has grown. He is an eagle, soaring high above the land, seeing the past and the potential of what can come. He is an eagle, talons sunk into his prey in the middle of a field. Two Eagle will tell the story of our people, telling of what went before and growing to tell of what is happening as it comes. Two Eagle is the keeper of the story of our people.’ The elder moved on to the next man.
‘What is your name?’ He asked.
‘I am Swooping Bird,’ answered the warrior.
‘Swooping Bird is a Man of Great Honor,’ said the elder as the medicine man finished smearing his face. ‘Robin Nest was safe with our people. We nurtured him, protected him, taught him the ways of our tribe. Now he has taken wing, and can soar above us and see all of our land laid out before us. He returns to us to show us the way. Swooping Bird shows us the trail to the future of our people.’
‘What is your name?’ The elder asked the next warrior.
‘I am Forest Water,’ he answered. The medicine man smeared his face with the white line.
‘Forest Water is a Man of Great Honor,’ answered the elder. ‘Source was quiet as a boy, keeping to himself in the woods around us. With every season, he learned the ways of our wanderings, until he himself could show us the way. Forest Water is quiet as he was when he was Source, but strong and sure now in his warrior way. Forest Water is the stream of the future of our people.’
‘What is your name?’
‘I am Broken Stone,’ answered the warrior. Again the medicine man smeared his face with white.
‘Broken Stone is a Man of Great Honor,’ answered the elder. ‘Thorn Bush was a strong young boy, quick to battle, quick to strike and win. Now he is even stronger. He is firm in his path, but wiser now too, for he knows that to be of use to his people, his strength must endure the changing seasons of time. Our enemies can bury him, but he will rise up with the swells of spring, breaking through the dirt around us, his strength protecting the people around him. Broken Stone is the rock of the future of our people.’
‘I am Crow Foot,’ said the next warrior.
‘Crow Foot is a Man of Great Honor,’ answered the elder. The medicine man stepped to his side and smeared his face with the line of white.
‘Sharp Beak too was quick to battle,’ started the elder. We laughed softly around him. ‘He would aim his spear carefully, and it would hit his target, piercing it to the center because of Sharp Beak’s strength. With his long training, the he is even swifter with his spear, his aim truer. As a Man of Great Honor, he will be so swift in battle that we may only see the mark of Crow Foot. Crow Foot will have moved on, but we will follow, for Crow Foot is the path of the future of our people.’ The elder moved to the next man.
‘What is your name?’ He asked.
‘I am West Wind,’ the warrior answered.
‘West Wind is a Man of Great Honor,’ answered the elder. The medicine man smeared the stripe of white across his face.
‘Fox Breath was a trickster,’ started the elder. Again, we warriors laughed around him. ‘When he was a boy, he would hide in our food stores until our squaws were hoarse from crying out for him to come inside. He started his training three times, but each time he would wander off, hiding and playing in the fields and forests. Last planting season, he started again. We elders were surprised to see his discipline. He would rise before the dawn light, running through the forest to strengthen his legs, throwing field stones to strengthen his arms. Each of you have traveled with us through the phases of the moon. You know that when it is warm, we go to the sea to harvest the fish. When it becomes hotter still, we move into the fields and plant our squash and corn and beans. We have burned some of the trees so that we might manage our crops. Sometimes, when we are moving from the sea to the field, we pass along a path that we did not create. The trees had not been burned there, and are feet did not tread the ground smooth. Where did this path come from? We do not know, for none of us were ever able to see who built it. Some say giants who lived here before us created their own ways. We do not know, for they are not here with us now. West Wind is as sure and strong as the old ways, steady to his people. We may become lost in battle, but West Wind will appear, West Wind is the road of the future of our people.’
Now the elder stood before me. The medicine man put down his gourd and took a small pouch from his belt.
‘What is your name?’ Asked the elder.
‘I am Black Soil,’ I answered.
‘Black Soil is a Man of Great Honor,’ the elder answered. The medicine man stood still behind him. ‘We nurtured Acorn all through his growing years. We taught him our ways. He learned to throw a spear. He learned how to catch a fish. When he was too young to reach the lowest branches, we lifted him up, and he climbed high into the trees and watched out for our enemies. He could move through the forest like the barest breath of the wind, not stirring the leaves. There was no snap of twig beneath his feet. Last planting season, we all worked together in the fields for our corn, our squash, our beans. When the sun set after the first planting day, we took Acorn to the edge of Fresh Pond and set him afloat in the water. He had to swim out by himself to the small island in the center. There, older Men of Great Honor buried him up to his neck in the cold ground of the first planting days. They left him no food. They left him no weapons. Then they lifted their great canoes over their heads and carried them to the water and crossed back to our shore. We wanted Acorn to take root in the story of our people. We wanted Acorn to spread his strength and skill until it could encompass all of our people. We wanted him to grow, to see over the people, but be with them on the ground, too. Acorn did none of these things. After three days, after burning the fire through three nights, he returned. He was not dripping wet, he was not covered in dirt. He was not hungry, nor exhausted from the trials we had placed before him. He did not sprout roots and grow, rising from the dirt to cast shade over us and protect us.’
The medicine man stepped forward, and, reaching into his pouch, he smeared a line of dirt across my face.
‘Black Soil was chosen by the Great Spirit. Black Soil has strength for other men to take root in. Black Soil has strength to hold the roots of our stories; Black Soil has strength to nurture the new growth in our tribe. He is underneath our people, allowing them to travel into the future, holding them together, nurturing them. When our enemy strikes, Black Soil will call upon the rage of the Great Spirit to protect us.’
We returned to our tribe that morning, and were recognized as Men of Honor.”
Black Soil was silent, his back straight. There was the sound of feet overhead, a stamping and pounding directly above them, then the crash of a wave and the lurching of the ship. The men were silent and did not move in their places. Several breaths passed.
“We have no elder with us,” began Black Soil, “no medicine man to lead us in the ritual. We have each other. The ways we were taught are within us now, and that is enough to complete the ceremony. The fire that lit my ceremony was made from the trees in our land. We circled those trees, that fire, to honor our land. Take this time now to choose your warrior names. Take this time to find something here with you that we can place on the floor in front of us and circle. Let me know when you are ready.” He stood up to his full height, and walked to a dark corner and was silent.
Many breaths passed. The men had risen and were moving about the space, murmuring to each other. Black Soil stood in the dark corner, his eyes closed. He was feeling his breath, feeling the movements around him. The men took soft steps, and then it seemed that they staggered about for a time. More sounds of stamping and yelling overhead. A thin trickle of water slid down the wall behind him and sploshed into a small puddle where the wall met the floor. He opened his eyes, Turtle Egg was standing in front of him.
“We’re ready,” Turtle Egg said, his voice steady and calm.
Although it had grown no brighter in the space since they had dispersed, Black Soil had no trouble making out the shapes of the men in front of him. They were spread out in a line, and he could see that the body of Horned Owl had been placed on the floor in front of them.
“We have nothing of our home except what we brought, which is ourselves,” began Turtle Egg, “Horned Owl is of our people, he is of our land.”
It took several breaths before Black Soil could speak.
“The spirits recognize you as Men of Honor from your actions. The spirits recognize you now as Men of Honor because you carry our land within you. Form a circle around Horned Owl.” The men moved into place, with Horned Owl in the center.
“Horned Owl was Horned Owl to us. He will stay Horned Owl. He gives his place as protector to all of us. We are Men of Honor. We are the protectors of our people. Setting Sun, what is your name?”
“I am Autumn Star,” he answered.
“Autumn Star is a Man of Great Honor. Setting Sun trained with us,” Black Soil said to all the men, “He fished faster than any of us, he blocked more goals from our rival teams than any of us. The sun sets and leaves us in darkness. In this darkness we begin to see the stars over us, guiding our way back home. When the sun rises again, still the stars are there, even though we cannot see them. So will Autumn Star will be our protector. Autumn Star is the will of our people.” He faced Autumn Star and reached out his left hand, “Come, join with me in our circle.” They joined hands and stood before Horned Owl.
“Weeping Willow, what is your name?” Black Soil asked.
“I am Gray Wolf,” he answered.
“Gray Wolf is a Man of Great Honor,” answered Black Soil. “Three cold seasons ago, the snow came so quickly, and fell so steadily that we were trapped on our wetus and could not go out into the bitter cold. Weeping Willow was the only one who could find our food stores buried beneath the fallen snow. Gray Wolf is a name well chosen. Sometimes the wolf must act alone, finding his own way through the land. We will need a lone wolf as a protector. Sometimes the wolf travels in packs, working with his brothers to survive. We need Gray Wolf to know our story and to keep our story. Alone, he will find a way for his people to go forward. Together with all of us, he will be the keeper of our story. Come join us in our circle.” Gray Wolf stepped up and took Autumn Star’s left hand.
Black Soil continued the ceremony, describing each warrior and welcoming him to join hands in the circle. Finally, he came to the last man.
“What is your name?” Black Soil asked.
“I am Path of Fire,” he answered.
“Path of Fire is a Man of Great Honor,” answered Black Soil. When Turtle Egg was a boy, the squaws coddled him.” The men in the circle tittered. “Yes,” he continued, “they set the basket they carried him in closet to the fire. They carried him over streams so that his feet would not get wet. As he got older, the boys teased him and played tricks on him. What did he do, this coddled boy? He did not cry. He did not resent the other boys. He did not ask for favors. He turned to his brothers, and learned from them. Horned Owl was the best shot with a sling. Turtle Egg went to him, and traveled with him all through one planting season. They would go out together and practice shooting until Turtle Egg too could hit his mark. A fire cannot burn alone. It feeds on what is around it. Our future is before us, and we do not know the way forward. Path of Fire will protect us. Path of Fire will lead us down the road to our future, even if it means he must burn the way. Join our circle, Path of Fire.”
They all stood in a circle around Horned Owl with their hands joined.
“Now we are all protectors of our people,” said Black Soil, “we honor Horned Owl. We honor his bravery; we honor his generosity. He is of our land; he is of our people. We will take him home to rest with the heroes of our tribe.” They stood a moment in silence. Black Soil raised his arms above his head, bringing all the others’ arms above their heads. With a great cry, he dropped his arms, opened his hands, and broke the circle. The ceremony was over.