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Circles of Onatha

Nash Mahoney
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Part I
I
Every decision Owera had ever made was perfectly planned out; all possible outcomes
explored; every advantage and disadvantage weighed carefully against each other to find the
optimal course of action. Endless potentials raced though his head, but when it came time for the
killing, that place was as cool and calculating as an animal. He looked constantly forward, but
never back. It was not his way. So he knew with every part of his killer’s mind that this raid
would go the same way as scores of other he had led.
II
It didn’t.
III
Snap! Twigs cracked through the heavy, sweating silence as one of Owera’s braves
settled down too quickly on one knee.
“Ohne:ka onònwara!” hissed Owera. “Does the importance of this raid leave your head so
quickly? If we are not victorious here, those of us who survive will die before we can make it
back to the tribe in time for Tsothohrhko:wa. If we are not victorious, I say, then let no man
come back alive.”
A whisper spread through the small band assembled at the top of the hill. It was quickly
cut off by Owera’s next words. Looking toward the sky, moonlight shining through dead and
dying trees on the left side of his face, he held his men’s attention.
“The time for words is over. Fighting comes now, and I know that all of you are worthy.
You have proven yourselves time and again, and I ask of you once more to unsheathe your
spears and ready your clubs. Our brothers in the party I sent ahead will meet us from the other
side when they hear my call. Some may die, and we will honor your sacrifices. Those of us who
live will prosper from your forfeit, and live fuller and longer for you. Any man down there has
had long years to consider his place, and he has chosen the wrong side. This is our homeland,
given by the Creator, and ours it will stay. I am made to think we are lucky today.”
Raising his open palms to the sky, the giant’s name tumbled reverently from Owera’s
mouth. “Tarhuhyiawahku.”
“Tarhuhyiawahku, may he keep the sky from falling as it grows ever darker,” was the
whispered echo from the rest of the Bear clan war band.
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Owera rose from his knee, and his men became his shadows. He turned to face the valley
between this hill and the next, and they copied him flawlessly. It was then that he took the first of
his regretted steps that night.
IV
It was Owera’s grandfather who first told him the stories of their people. He knew all the
creation ones by heart: how the creator planted a single maize plant so that the People of the Flint
could grow many things, how the people were created by Iosheka, the wind and the summer
were spirits competing in endless battles across the land. He knew of Ha Wen Neyu, the Great
Spirit, and he knew of Tarhuhyiawahku, the giant that holds up the sky. But his grandfather,
Eksa'agaol, which meant child of the wind, was the first to tell him of the great wars that had
plagued his people; that were responsible for Owera being born into a world of dry, cracked
earth, and strife without end.
V
That first step. Wind ruffled Owera’s remaining hair, and chilled the shaven places on his
head, the three feathers in his headdress whistling faintly as his moccasin crunched in the sparse
crab grass. A raven cawed from a nearby skeleton tree. Cool sweat broke out on his arms and
neck.
**
In the beginning, life had been good for the People of the Flint. For that was what they
called themselves, after the rock they used to fashion their weapons. The land was green, and the
trees grew tall and strong and full, and animals without number roamed. The People took what
they needed, and never too much, Eksa’a had said. They lived in harmony with the earth and
with the Gods. The different tribes had been united under one law: peace. All this changed when
the invaders first breached the soil of their land.
**
Then another step. His mind grew cooler and calmer: he could sense his war band around
him, readying for the kill. They became as one, and moved through the trees like wraiths.
**
They came in giant wooden canoes that held hundreds of men and those men came
pouring out. They held strange objects in their hands and wore otherworldly clothes.
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“In the middle of summer, the men were fully clothed!” Eksa’agaol exclaimed. “This was
our first hint that something was not right about them.”
“What did they want, grandfather?”
“They wanted our land, Owera, they wanted the forests and plains, the lakes and the
rivers, the deer and the fish; they wanted to take everything that was given to us by the Creator.”
Eksa’a’s suddenly found something intriguing on the ground, for his eyes flicked downward, and
he took a few moments before he began to speak again.
“The People watched for moons as these men came closer and closer to our land. They
cut down the forest around them, and made a large longhouse. It was not until after the building
of that first longhouse – for they made many more – that the men noticed the People.
**
The third step. The camp spread out below them grew into sharper focus, fire crackling,
drums pounding their watery way onward, low voices singing gently, eerily familiar.
**
Many bloody battles followed, Owera’s grandfather told him, as they sat outside his
house. The new men hid in their longhouses and used strange weapons against the People.
Booms and cracks echoed into the forests and the weapons bit into the trees and into the ranks of
the People. But, the People knew the land, the invaders did not.
“After years of fighting, the People – my father among them – were able to take one of
the new longhouses from the invaders. Over time, they took more and more of these forts, and
learned to use the weapons we call thunder sticks.”
“I’ve never seen one being used.”
“We still have a fair number of them, enough to fight off the invaders again, but few
know of it, and fewer still know how to use them.”
**
Step. Shadowy figures moved slowly through the tree cover, rocking back and forth to
the hypnotic rhythm. Drifting upward, reaching desperately for the starry sky, smoke broke out
of the trees.
**
“Our braves became too much for the invaders to fend off. They took to burning the
forests we called home. For endless days, smoke hung in the air, and the horizon stayed lit. Still
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we prevailed, still we fought these new men, and still we were winning. They retreated back
toward the sea, burning everything behind them, and finally left for good. We had won, but it
was a sour victory. Gone were our forests, our plains, splintered, charred trees and barren wastes
in their place.”
**
Step. The metallic tang in Owera’s mouth doubled, adrenaline surging from Gods knew
where. Death was in the air.
**
“We found that even the animals we hunted were mostly gone. It must have been all the
fire that drove them away. We had barely any animals to hunt, and no land on which to farm.
With so little food, and even less habitable land, it’s no wonder the tribes broke apart and started
fighting amongst each other. Why any of us would actually want this broken land is beyond me,
though.”
“There are the Onathan circles though.”
“Not when the war was over, there weren’t. And not when I was young, either…”
**
Step. That same smoke reached Owera’s hunter’s nose. It should sting, he knew, but no
pain ever came at this stage. Later, he would feel the aches, and the gashes, and he would treat
them as he had treated hundreds before them, but for now, there was only the killing on his mind.
They were running full out now, pounding down the hill in unison. Owera thought of the party of
light scouts he sent ahead of him to make sure this group stayed where they were, wondering if
they would come at the correct time. Hoping they would come.
The line of trees grew ever closer. Opening his mouth, Owera let out his full-throated cry.
The note he produced was loud and strong. A second later, his warrior’s voices rang out as well
as they broke through the trees. Though the next few minutes were a blur at the time, they would
play in endless loops in Owera’s waking mind for years to come.
VI
Owera’s scout party was settled for the night. They had brought out the drums, started a
fire, and cooked what small rations they had.
“How do you think he’ll take the news?”
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“He won’t be happy that they just disappeared – this was our only chance for a step
toward an Onathan circle – and we are going to be the ones to pay for it.”
A twig snapped just on the edge of hearing. None of the men thought anything of it.
“Shouldn’t they be here by now? I’m getting restless. Something’s not right; maybe they
got ambushed.”
Then their drums seemed to get a little louder. It was a much less hollow sound however,
almost like the pounding of feet. The scouts looked around themselves apprehensively. Suddenly
a man burst from the shade, a man they all knew, a man whose three-feathered headdress marked
him well. He was followed by a score more men, whom the scouts could have identified had they
been given a moment to comprehend the situation.
VII
Owera and his braves did not give the scattered men a single moment to comprehend
what was happening to them. As soon as they broke from the trees, his club was swinging toward
one of the unsuspecting enemies’ heads. It connected with a satisfying crack. Spears flew past
his ears, filling them with wind, and flashing in the flickering light of the fire. With twangs and
thuds they sunk themselves into several men who had tried to flee from the camp. Owera heard
behind him more clubs being pulled to the ready, just as he hauled his own up in time to block a
blow from the man in front of him. After a parry, he spun and hit the man high in his side,
breaking a few ribs from the sound of it. He slunk to the ground and was silent. Owera moved
forward, his club felling two more who dared to approach him. Then –
“Owera! Owera! Stop!”
Owera looked up. The man speaking was from the enemy camp. How did he know the
name of his attacker? Then recognition flashed across the clan-leader’s visage. The speaker was
one of his own scouts.
“Stop.” Owera’s hand rose to accompany his booming voice. All was quiet in the
clearing. His head turned slowly back the way he had come. He saw with grim clarity each man
he had killed. Each of his own men he had killed. How could he have made such a mistake? He
had told his scouts to put the enemy in between their two parties.
That man had been a playmate as a child; this one had been the son of his uncle. The
smell of blood and sweat was suddenly too thick in the air. He looked down, and his eyes settled
upon his club. A sickening clot of blood and hair was stuck to it. Owera sunk to his knees, eyes
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still grasping for something sane, something to wake him from what surely had to be a
nightmare. From the nearby trees, the raven cawed again.
“Futile! Futile!” each caw seemed to screech. The fog was coming over Owera now, and
those were the last sounds he heard for some time. Blood pounded endlessly behind his now
clouded-over eyes.
“Futile…” whispered Owera, he of the Bear clan. “Futile…”

Part II
I
The long trek back to the meeting place of the tribe was always an arduous one, with
equal parts barren, desolate plains, and forests of stunted yet menacing trees that had been dead
for many years. Giving no relief was the fact that the bodies of the fallen must be taken along,
and buried at the tribe’s home, as tradition dictated. This gave Owera plenty of time to think,
though the last thing he wanted to do was remember the atrocities he had committed a fortnight
ago. He had no idea what would happen to him, though he knew it would not be good. Such an
event was certainly not in the People’s history, and as such, there was no precedent for the
punishment he would receive. Whatever it was, Owera thought, it would never be enough to
atone for his mistake.
He had planned for days to make sure every second of the raid was performed perfectly.
It was only after four days of complete silence into the long journey that he finally broached the
subject with his head scout, Ratkahthos. He had been out all day scouting ahead without being
told to.
“Kahthos, what happened that night?”
“I am not so sure what I should-”
“I need to know, I must ease my troubled mind someway. I am made to think there is a
lesson to be learned here.” Owera reflected inwardly that should not have run his men so ragged,
should have let them into his head, and into his heart. “No trouble will come to you for telling
the truth.”
“We traipsed after them for three weeks, finding them easily as soon as we took our leave
from you. They were a noisy bunch, simple to follow. They seemed to know little of our land.
We all joked about how easy the raid would be. We were confident. Our confidence made us
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arrogant. It was our biggest mistake. We lowered the guard every night, and eventually no one
was keeping watch while we slept. We woke up on morning after camping on the opposite side
of a large hill. That morning two of the scouts climbed to the top to find nothing on the other side
but the river. We have no idea what happened to them.
“At that point we all became scared. We didn’t know what to think. We worried about
how we would be received at the tribe’s meeting in Big Cold.”
“You do realize that people don’t just disappear, don’t you Kahthos?”
“Well yes sir, but… whatever happened to them, they were not there in the morning. We
found the remnants of their camp, a few scattered belongings left behind, nothing else. Tracks
led us to the river, but with no evidence of canoes.”
Ratkahthos sighed, and looked away form Owera. His normally brisk walk slowed to a
near crawl. A small cloud of dust fled his moccasin-clad feet. He looked up. “I…” Owera could
see the hurt in his eyes, could see it very well. They were silently screaming at him, asking the
Earth’s shortest and most unanswerable question: “Why?”
After some minutes, Ratkahthos regained his composure, but his voice remained shaky,
and somehow small. “I sent groups of two men in every direction the wind could blow, with
directions to run at full sprint for a full day, and to then return to me. None found any evidence
of the group we were following. One group did not return at all.”
An odd feeling came over Owera, and he spun around to find all his men watching. All
tried to act as if they had not been eavesdropping. All failed miserably. “Go on, listen,” he
sighed, “I’m through with the secrets.”
“Then, we turned back toward the place we agreed to corral them to in order to wait for
you to catch up with us, waiting to find out what would happen, what direction we would take
now. The men were restless. We set up a fire, took out the drums. The rest…” Waving his hand,
as if to say “the rest cannot be put into words” or “the rest is playing vividly and ceaselessly in
all our minds, so I need not tell that part of the story,” Kahthos fell into silence.
II
In another few days, the ragged remnants of Owera’s warband came over the crest of a
hill. This hill jutted up against a vast lake. It had the appearance of disease, on their side anyway.
Stagnant water lapped slowly on the yellowed shore. On the far side of the lake, however, many
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miles across, the water turned a crystal blue, and pushed gently upon a sloping lush green shore.
This was one of the Onathan circles that the tribes now fought over.
Owera knew something of these fertile areas that had only recently begun to populate the
world. When the invaders retreated, they left a wake of fire and destruction. It was horrible, and
the effects were still being felt, but at least it was explainable; the People knew why their land
was desolate; why their children cried out in hunger. The circles though, that was something
new, mysterious. Around the time of Owera’s birth, people started to see them for the first time.
Grass flourished, and crops that the people had long since abandoned started to grow.
The Onathan circles, so named for the god of farming, Onatha, encompassed such
desirable land that each tribe wanted to have dominion over them. Peace that had miraculously
lasted throughout the long war with the invaders crumbled at the feet of the tribes. The People of
the Flint woke to find that allies were enemies, and thus there was an ever more urgent reason to
lay claim to an Onathan circle, for without its protection and resources, the people would vanish
and be forgotten.
The tribe had control of one circle, indeed, this is where they based themselves. As a
result, they had become prosperous, and the land could no longer support all of them. If they
tried to take too much from the land, something their stories and legends had warned against
since the beginning of time, a delicate balance would be disrupted, and so the tribe had prepared,
and set groups of warriors out to capture another circle, or at the very least, break up some of the
resistance they would face by defeating roving enemy warbands from other tribes.
III
The Onathan circle over yonder lake belonged to the Kontirio tribe. Or at least, that was
what the People called their closest neighbors, their most frequent adversaries, and the most
dangerous hunters they had ever faced. It meant “wild animals” and the Kontirio had certainly
earned their name. Savages, they kept no hostages – unless one counted their women as hostages,
according the stories about the way they were treated – only brutally killed any enemy they
captured. Owera’s own father had fallen this way. It was this circle the People hoped to soon
have control over. It was this circle Owera thought he would be one step closer to two weeks
ago…
The band had come upon the clearing where they had stowed the canoes some months
ago. From that point on, the journey would be at least faster, if no less tiring. They had been
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carrying the twenty-odd bodies since they had been freshly killed. Even covered with special
plants and medicine from the tribe, and wrapped in hides, the smell was still getting to be a major
problem, though luckily winter was approaching. At this stage, they would be able to store the
bodies in the canoes, and ride along with them, covering much more ground – or water, in this
case – than they could while dragging the bodies of almost 20 formerly healthy men.
Owera commanded his band to load the bodies of their fallen brothers into the canoes.
For several minutes the sounds of grunts and sighs lingered on the bank of the river. After this,
they pushed off into the coldness, water already pulling the boats, as if beckoning them to a safe
haven, a place where they could forget about what they had done; atone for it, and one day live
up to their former glory.
IV
Owera’s band was still miles away from the tribe’s winter camp when they first heard the
drums, faint but definitely there. It started off as more of a feeling than a true sound, a rattling
deep in the bones. All the familiar landmarks stood exactly as they had last year to encourage the
ragged and dog-tired remains of what was once a proud group of warriors and scouts. The way
was well known to every man present, so even without the ghostly drums to guide them, they
would have made it into camp just the same.
The events of almost 3 weeks ago hung heavily in the heads of all the men like a thick
syrup, obscuring any other thoughts they might have normally had. Not a one pondered how he
would spend his time at the winter festival, where a man could normally lose himself for a time
from the everyday struggle to live in a whirlwind of games and storytelling. No one thought of
the delicious food that had been stored all year for the festival, the rare treats and succulent meats
they would enjoy. Barely on their minds were there families they had left behind: for some,
parents and siblings, for others, wives and children. No, the only thing they could contemplate
was an attempt to come to terms with the terrible thing that had happened, what would later be
referred to as Raven’s Massacre.
As if on cue, a raven interrupted the rhythmic pounding of the faraway drums, shocking
everyone back into alertness.
“Cursed Raven,” spat Owera, “that old trickster bodes ill for us.” Those were the last
words spoken until they reached the camp, until their trial, until their punishment was spoken.
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The worst feeling that one of the People could have was that of being alone. In a culture
centered around finding guidance and advise; respecting elders and traditions; one would think it
would be impossible to experience a loneliness. Anywhere one turned was someone to be looked
up to, someone to tell a story and give a prod in the right direction: The chief, parents,
grandparents, ancestors, spirit guides, even nature itself – in certain areas of the world,
nowadays. That’s why it was so utterly devastating that Owera’s men felt completely alone.
They heard no encouraging voices in their heads; they were humbled, and worse, they had no
idea how to go on from here.
V
The men paddled their canoes into a small offshoot of the river that was used solely for
storing the collective canoes of the tribe. A few men watched over them, but due to the size of
the tribe – Owera’s was one of 7 warbands, - Owera did not know them by name.
“Well met,” they called, “How went your raid?” They had not noticed the small size of
the group yet; the murky water hid more than the sick but healing riverbed, evidently. Neither
Owera nor any of his men voiced any response. Only rose out of their vessels slowly as the noses
bumped the shore and each other. Only turned back to the canoes, and bent over to retrieve what
was stored inside. Only stood back up, carrying their macabre bundles. They looked at those on
watch duty for the canoes, and when any of those men told of this day in the years to come, he
would have said that Owera’s men looked not into their eyes, but straight through them.
They turned their eyes and their bodies toward the path that led to the main camp. After a
few seconds one of the watch men gasped – he must have seen a foot at one end or a head at
another starting to creep from one of the bundles, or else just deduced a general human shape
from them. Owera did not flinch, and, like they always had, his men followed suit. Only
continued to walk along the path.
**
Similar gasps and a new element – screams – met the band as they journeyed farther and
farther to the center of the camp, towards usually welcoming longhouse that now stood tall and
ominous. Once they finally arrived at the Chief’s longhouse, a permanent structure that stood
here at the tribes meeting place all year, Owera mentally prepared. He threw a prayer northward
to Tarhuhyiawahku, in hopes that the falling pieces of his own world would be held up a while
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longer. He directed his men to take the bodies to the large funeral pyre at the east end of the
camp, and stepped through the doorway.
VI
“Owera!” Hiawatha’s jovial voice rang out and echoed in his longhouse. He had always
liked Owera, had felt some lingering sympathy for the way the boy’s father was taken from the
world, taken from his only son, and from his wife. She later took to roaming far and wide for
days and days, convinced her husband was only lost, convinced she would find him if she tried
hard enough, never knowing she would also meet her death in the wilderness.
Owera knew the chief harbored some amount of good feelings for him. He attempted to
savor the sensation of being liked for what he assumed would be the last time in his life.
“I am made to think you did well, child.” No one had delivered the news to Hiawatha yet;
tribal custom dictated that all things were brought to him firsthand.
“It saddens me to have to prove you wrong, Grandfather.”
“What do you mean by this?”
“There was a terrible mistake. Many of my men – over half – were killed by my own
carelessness.”
“Sacrifices must be made, even if we do not want to be the ones to make them. I am sure
you did not lead these men to their deaths without great sorrow. What matters is that you won,
that we are a step closer to being able to provide prosperity for our people.”
“We did not win. We never made contact with the enemy band.”
“What nonsense is this? How did your men die, if you had no battles?”
“Forgive me. Oh but I do not deserve it. I led my warriors into battle against my scouts,
that is how they died. Before we knew what we were doing, the damage was done, the battle was
over.”
“How could you allow something like this to go on under your watch?” The chief was
getting mad. He was not seething yet, not at his red-faced full capacity, not using the tone that
could bring any man down in shame, but he would be before the night was over.
“I planned to ambush the enemy by cornering them between my split group. When my
warriors and I reached the agreed-upon place, we saw a group there. In the darkness we mistook
them for our prey and attacked, when it was in reality my scouts who had doubled back to meet
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us after losing sight of the group we were stalking. It was brutal.” He held his head when he said
this, not allowing his shame and his distress to muddle his words.
“Have you no foresight, Owera?” This stung Owera; shocked him. His life had been
dictated by careful planning, by formulas, traditions and preparation. To suggest that he lacked
this vital skill was akin to denying the sun the choice to rise.
“I… miscalculated.”
“I know not what to say to you Owera. There is no event like this in our whole history.
Nothing even similar to it. No horror on this scale. Because of your recklessness and negligence,
much of our tribe will be affected directly. Children lost fathers, wives lost husbands, and parents
lost children. And every single one of us lost a chance to prosper.”
“The only thing I ask, though I deserve no requests, is to spare my men in your final
punishment. This was my fault, and my fault alone. I will walk the path of the humbled by
myself.”
Hiawatha was silent for a long while, gazing at a spot some meters above Owera’s head,
as if he was humiliated of him, and he most likely was. In this silence Owera waited, and
listened. Listened to the sighing of wind against the walls; the faint sound of death songs being
sung by grieving women. Finally the great chief opened his mouth.
“You must go.” He said. “Go and try to reclaim your swiftly escaping soul. You will go
on a vision quest, like you did when you were a boy.”
“What will happen to me after? And what if my guardian wants no part of me?”
“Your second question will be answered only by time itself. As for the first, when you
return, a council will be brought together to decide your fate.”
“I do not know what to say. I expected much worse for my crimes. Thanks you.”
“Go child, go before I change my mind. You are to fast on your quest. Return only when
you have made some kind of progress.”
“I-”
“GO.”
VII
Owera was doubtful. It was his fourth day waiting in the bottom of this Godsforsaken
valley, and he was holding to the idea that no help would come for him, that he would die out
here. He was growing steadily hungrier, and already this had led to hallucinations, some of
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phantom armies bursting from the trees around him, armies that, when they came closer and
closer, possessed Owera’s face.
“This must be another one of them,” he thought as a bear broke cover on the crest of the
hill started loping towards him. All the same, he readied his lance, ready to gore the beast if he
must, but hoping to leave it alone and let it on its way. Assuming of course, that it wasn’t another
false vision. There was something odd about the bear though. He – for at this distance Owera
could tell that it was surely a male – walked slower than most, as if he had lived for a thousand
years, but confidently, as if he had a thousand more. There was a faint silvery sheen all around
him; light seemed not to shine upon him, but to get sucked into his fur, bent, and shot back out
again.
Some otherworldly voice told Owera it would be folly to take up arms against this
creature, so he dropped his lance to the grass with a soft thump, and, here on the edge of the
Onathan circle of the People of the Flint, gave the great ursine figure the power to hurt him
terribly, and hoped he wouldn’t.
VIII
Owera was scared, only a fool would not be, but he felt detached from his fear, as though
he were only an observer placed directly behind his own eyes. The bear came closer and closer
until finally it was eye to eye with him. Then something amazing happened, that shocked Owera
even more than the initial appearance of the bear. It began to speak.
“I have waited long for you, Owera. It has been many moons that I thought you would
come searching for me again.” It was then that something in Owera’s mind clicked. This was his
spirit animal, whom he had first met on his traditional vision quest at 14 years of age. The spirit
animal that he assumed had left him, wanting for guidance, in a world where he was alone as it
was. As if the beast could read his mind, he said “For it was not I who left you, but you who left
me. With your swift rise to leadership, you abandoned tradition, and demonstrated that you no
longer deserved my guidance.”
Owera hung his head. He knew he had done wrong by the traditions of his ancestors; he
had indeed risen to some amount of power after his mother was killed in the wilderness and he
was taken under the wing of a prominent warrior. His biggest offence had been to denounce the
Creator as the most important God; in the face of the absolute destruction of the world he had
been born into, how could such a God be worthy of worship? Instead he turned to
 15

Tarhuhyiawahku, the legendary giant who held up the sky, the only part of Owera’s world that
had not been turned into a feral wasteland, dead to man and animal and plant, devoid of any of
the qualities a benevolent being would bestow upon his chosen people.
“What is my path now?” Owera asked hesitantly, reverently. He would try not to mess up
his second chance.
“You must redeem yourself in the eyes of your tribe, and especially of your chief. You
have heard his name many times: Hiawatha, or He Makes Two Rivers. You must help him to
fulfill his namesake. A river is a provider of life in the world, for all things. Your tribe has made
one river for themselves, the Onathan circle you call home. Help them to make another. When
winter falls and sun rips through the clouds again, help them to gain another Onathan circle.”
“How will I do this without warriors who trust me? Without anyone to lead into battle
against the Kontirio?”
“Do not be so arrogant, child. You are to be humbled, not placed at the head of a new
warband.”
“I am feeling humbled already…”
“Get used to it, Owera, but know this. If you stay true to your tribe, to what is your
family, you will claim your glory. You may even be counted as family by Hiawatha.”
“I feel as if that will never happen, but I am made to think that I should trust your words.”
“The last piece of advice I have to offer: you should probably wake up around now, or
else you will starve to death. Wake up…”
IX
Owera felt a crack to straight to his right temple, a jarring blow that startled him into
consciousness. “Wake up! Wake up!” yelled a lilting feminine voice somewhere above him. He
opened his eyes, blinking rapidly at the sun, when that source of his blindness was eclipsed by
the face of a woman. A waterfall of darkest black hair cascaded to either side of her tanned,
round face, and large dark eyes peered innocently but intensely down at Owera.
“Okay, I think that did the trick. I’m up.”
“Oh, I thought you’d never awake. I stumbled upon you out here. I hadn’t known this
was where you came for your vision quest.” Then realization dawned upon her face. “I didn’t
mean to… I mean, did I interrupt your vision?”
 16

“No, my spirit animal reached me successfully and delivered his message. Thank you for
finding me. I have been without food for four days. You wouldn’t happen to have anything…?”
She laughed. A beautiful sound. Owera entertained the notion that he wouldn’t mind
spending time getting to know this woman. Who was she, and why had he never seen her before?
“Actually, I might be of some use in that direction.” From the small pouch at her hip she pulled
some pieces of dried meat and gave them to Owera.
“Thank you so much.” It took much effort not to snatch the food from her open hand. He
ate in silence for a time, and then thought aloud. “You must know who I am. I say this not out of
arrogance, for I am not proud of the thing that has made me famous, but out of embarrassment.
But I do not know you.”
“My name is Konoronkhwa.”
Owera raised his hand just in time to cover the rain of food that exited his mouth when he
started coughing and sputtering in surprise. “You are Hiawatha’s daughter? I… I had not heard
she was so beautiful.” He also did not know he was going to say this until he actually did.
Konoronkhwa blushed and turned her head away. “You have not seen me because I have
been in training so long. Tradition dictates I must learn my mother’s trade. Learning how to
manage the farming, and the families of the tribe that I will one day rule over.” Owera
sometimes forgot the importance of the Clan Mother in the day-to-day running of the tribe.
While Hiawatha made military decisions, directed what the warbands would do each year, and
saw to the training of young braves, his wife, Karahkwa Yakon:kwe, or Sun Woman, determined
how families interacted, settling disputes and petty arguments, and decided how the farming
would take place.
“You are to take Karahkwa Yakon:kwe’s place?” Most called the compassionate,
matronly woman Karahkwa, but Owera used her full name to show his respect for the girl’s
mother. “Who will rule by your side?”
“Certainly no man who I have to rescue myself,” she said pointedly. “Now come, let’s
get you back to the main camp.”
X
Owera stood in the middle of Hiawatha’s longhouse, nervous and sweating. He was
confident that his spirit guardian had told the truth, but was still fearful of what his exact
punishment would be.
 17

Hiawatha and the leaders of the six other warbands all sat along the back wall. Various
others were grouped by the entrance, including Konoronkhwa and her mother.
“After much deliberation, we seven have found that though your actions were grievous in
the extreme, they were committed not through malicious intent, but carelessness on your part.
We do not forgive you for anything yet, but neither are you banished. You will be stripped of
your rank as warband leader, and made to fight as the lowest of braves. You will be a brave
nonetheless, an unknown but integral part of the tribe. It will teach you to appreciate the tribe as
a part of it, teach you to not think yourself above it.”
This was nothing compared to the horrible things Owera had imagined. His relief
showed, he was sure of it, just as he was sure the council in front of him could hear his swiftly
beating heart.
“Okwaho will be taking over your band; the empty spots of which will be filled out by
new braves, and his second-in-command will take his old band. You will report directly to
Okwaho, as a part of your old warband.” Owera groaned inwardly. This was a double blow.
Okwaho had been the most critical of allowing someone as young as Owera to lead a warband.
Not only did he have to deal with the man, but he had to do this as a part of a group he had once
led.
“You may go now Owera. You must want some time to think.” Owera turned to leave.
As an afterthought, Hiawatha added “If you find no place to spend nights, you are still welcome
in my home.” Owera’s head bobbed quickly up and down. His time for words to the Chief today
was over, and he knew that even if he found no relative willing to share his home, Owera would
not be coming back here to sleep tonight.
As he left, he glimpsed Konoronkhwa from the edge of vision. She was making a strange
motion, and it was not until Owera turned his head toward her slightly that he saw she was
putting the back of her hand on her forehead, the universal sign for fainting, and gesturing
outside with her head. Owera took this to mean he should go back to the place where she had
found him unconscious, though he knew not why. No matter though, he was planning on
sleeping there tonight anyway, just without the bonus of a visitor.
XI
 18

Her gentle whisper woke him from the light half-sleep of a man who must always be on
guard. He looked around and located Konoronkhwa standing to his left. He could see the
depressions her small feet had left in the springy, wet grass.
“I needed to see you.” This was all she said for a long time.
Owera could only puzzle at the reasons for this. They barely knew each other, after all. If
Owera had anything to say about it, that was the way it would stay. “You don’t want to know
me,” he said casually, painfully. “I have done horrible things.” He wondered if he would ever
overcome his mistakes, or if they would become his legacy.
“You were not responsible for what happened this autumn. You know it as well as I do;
as well as my father does; as well as any of your men do.”
“Truly? My men? They say so?”
“Yes. Of course they say so. Every one of them is loyal to you. I have spoken to them all.
And my father thinks not that you have ruined your fate, only that you have lost your way.” She
looked at Owera hesitantly, gauging his reaction.
“No matter… I am lost. But I fear I am lost the way my mother was lost: not in the world
but in my own mind.”
Silence met this last statement. Seconds passed. Seconds that were carried away in the
wind and piled up in some far-away valley. Soon, minutes began to join the seconds. Then–
“I watched you when you were training.”
“What’s this now?”
“When you were training. I would come every day and watch from the trees for an hour
or so. The warriors-in-training. I watched everyone really. But… you were always best. And you
had a real story. It is a sad one, but a story nonetheless. That was years ago. Then, I would wait
for your return when you were old enough to go on raids. I did not know why I cared for you so
much, only knew that I did. I hoped that you would come back unharmed. I became even more
scared when you were granted control of your band three years ago. I always had the idea that
my concern for you would wane as I grew older.
“When I found you today, though, I knew. I knew that I should stop hiding. It is a sign
from the Creator that I must fight for what I care for. Because I am the only one who can care for
you now, Owera. You are lost. I am made to think it is my job to find you.”
 19

The moon was especially bright this night. It was receding from its recent bloated,
circular state, and beginning to smile again, casting an ethereal light on the mysterious and
startling precedings of the night. The crickets performed their endless symphony from every
surrounding tree and bush.
“Konoronkhwa…”
Then he could not speak, because she was upon him. He was met with a wave of sweet
grass. The smell of blackberries and girl sweat. They fell to the skins he had placed on the
ground and were gone to the world. Transported to another. A world created solely for them,
where they were the only inhabitants. They held each other close.
**
Later, they lay close together, their foreheads touching. “I never knew…” Owera said.

Part III
I
When Owera woke up, Konoronkhwa was gone. She left only a rough outline in the grass
and a sweet lingering scent, reminding Owera of the night before, and a fear that he had
imagined the night. Judging by the light, Owera figured he had about half an hour until he had to
report to Okwaho. Oh, how he was not looking forward to that. But the memory of
Konoronkhwa’s warm touch allowed him to ignore it.
He took a quick walk back to the camp, straight towards the middle, where cooking fires
glowed feebly, leftover from the night before. Grabbing some food that no one else had claimed,
it became his breakfast. He then took the long way towards the practice grounds about a half
mile away from camp, going farther and doubling back to gather his thoughts.
“Owera!” Okwaho’s sneering voice startled him from his walking trance. “So nice of you
to privilege us with your presence.”
“This is when I was told to assemble with the rest of my… of your band.”
Okwaho turned to address the crowd of 40 or so men in front of him, some of them
Owera’s most trusted allies, some he did not know at all. “Now that all of you are under my
direct control, you will see how a warband is supposed to be run. You will see how I run a
warband.” With every emphasized word, he shot a hateful look at Owera, as if he thought each
one caused him physical pain, and relished the fact.
 20

Any prospect Owera’s subconscious had not yet given up on – the off-chance that
Okwaho would act like the elder he was – were dashed. He knew today would be as painful as
Okwaho wished it to be, and that the next day would offer no reprieve.
And he was not proven wrong. He and all the other braves and scouts moved without a
moment of rest between exercises. Okwaho called for sprints, and long runs through the hilly
area surrounding the tribe’s camp, and hours on end of treading water to build strength and
endurance. After a measly 15 minutes to wolf down a meal, it was back to work. They did
weapons training after lunch, with hours each devoted to the lance and the club and the bow and
arrow. Owera had, of course, excessive training in each of these areas, so this was nothing new t
him. Still, it had been many months since he had pushed his body this close to its limit. And he
sure could feel that limit, feel it like a wall every time he went all out. But if he hit that wall, and
gave up, he would never hear the end of it from Okwaho, never have the chance to earn back his
reputation, his glory, his rightful place at the top.
Finally, mercilessly, the day’s disheartening and tiring work was over. Owera stumbled
back towards the place that his week or so back at the camp had made habit. As he passed into
the bushes, he became aware of another presence. That presence was Konoronkhwa, and all the
life-force he had felt drain away during the training of the day came rushing back into him
instantly.
“I am sorry I could not stay through the night. My absence must not be noticed.”
“I understand.” Her face fell. “Yet,” he continued “it eases neither my mind nor my
heart.” This made her look considerably less troubled, something Owera delighted in.
“Nor mine. I cannot deny that I am very happy that you feel something for me.”
“It surprises me. I feel that I know you like an old friend, yet in reality I know next to
nothing about you. Yesterday I did know nothing. I… I have never had the opportunity to feel
this way about someone. My position as a warband leader is the only thing I have given any
focus to in my life. It consumed everything, but most importantly, it let me forget my father and
mother.”
“I’ve had crushes before like any girl has, but no one has interested me and caught my
sympathy as you did.”
“Will you be able to stay tonight?” He wondered if the hopefulness in his voice was as
obvious as it seemed.
 21

“I might… I question how long I can stay away from my father’s house before he notices
I have been gone. If he knew the reason, it could mean trouble for both of us. Those are worries
for another night though. For now, the water looks too nice to pass.”
They had been walking parallel to the river that ran across the top edge of the Onathan
circle for about ten minutes now. Owera had paid it no mind. (How could he, with her so close?)
Now though, he did notice that conditions were perfect for swimming. Before he could finish
this thought, a loud and spectacular splash sprayed him with cold beads from his shins upward.
Knowing it would do him no good to stay out here in the cool air, he followed the woman,
thinking her crazy for jumping, himself crazy for following, and not caring about either.
II
They had made it back to the valley that Owera had made his residence. They lay out in
the open, letting the air dry their skin and soaked clothes. Looking up at the stars, they fell into a
comfort level that might take others months to achieve. With her head upon his chest, they talked
late into the night, discussing the things they knew well, the things they did not, and everything
in between. Once again they fell asleep.
III
And once again Owera woke up without her. He knew this is how it must be, but he still
felt almost hurt. He was beginning to find that, after this short time together, he needed her
presence.
Okwaho’s anger at him had not seemed to recede, even though Owera showed up an hour
early – he had nothing else to do and knew he could not get even another five minutes of sleep
out of the morning.
Everything Owera had had trouble with the day before was suddenly twofold. His
muscles burned with every bound; reactions slowed during spars. He could see the effect on
every other member of the band as well, and he felt like the whole ordeal was of his doing: if he
had not started the sequence of events that made Okwaho leader of the band, they would not be
in this position. He did not want to lose the loyalty, or at the very least, the respect and
friendship, of his former underlings.
That day though, news reached him that made him overjoyed. While eating on their
meager break, one of the new braves was talking about his father.
 22

“…He is close friends with Hiawatha’s brother. According to that man, the Chief’s
daughter is moving in with her aunt and uncle for further training…”
IV
“Yes, it is true. I had hoped to surprise you with this news, but it seems you are still
happy about it. My aunt is a woman who believes in independence. She will not care where I go
at night.”
“Falling asleep with you is wonderful, but I must admit I have waited to be able to wake
up with you, Konoronkhwa.”
He did. It was bliss for her face to be the first thing he saw when his eyes and his mind
greeted the new day. To hold her in his arms while feeling the sleepiness slowly seep out of him.
V
Owera settled into a routine during those cold winter months.
Every morning, he would awake to Konoronkhwa’s warm breath on his neck. They
would part, her to her aunts house, where she learned how to solve problems on her own,
something that had been partly neglected in her early training, and him to warrior’s training,
where he was humiliated by Okwaho, but not broken, as the man wished him to be.
Every day, he held out, knowing what would happen if he did, learning the true meaning
of being part of something larger. He had accepted that he could play an integral part in a battle
even if he was not at the forefront of it. He was quickly recognized as the group as the hardest
worker, perhaps because he had the most to lose.
Reluctantly, a raw respect began to grow in Owera’s head for Okwaho. If nothing else,
the way he led made sense; it was logical and lacked nonsense. And no one could deny the
growth they saw firsthand: new recruits had become well-oiled killing machines, learning to do
their deadly work rapidly and effectively. Owera became fast friends with Ratkahthos, the head
scout of the band, the man he had gone to for answers after the massacre that haunted him like an
unshakeable spirit. Kahthos helped Owera in areas he had never had formal training in, the way
of the scout, the art of being unseen, of using the bow and arrow to maximum effect.
She on the other hand, learned by helping her aunt to mediate disagreements between
families, and earned a reputation for being a natural at it. She would meet Owera in the field
where Owera practiced each day, his body tired and bruised from endurance runs and tough
fights, in the toughest of which he faced Okwaho himself – the grizzled old man had plenty of
 23

fight left in him, and Konoronkhwa’s mind tired from mental and verbal sparring with angry
families.
Every night, the two would learn more and more about each other, both in silence and
out. Owera in particular was voracious for hearing many stories and legends he had not been
taught or had not cherished properly; he wanted to take what his spirit animal had said about
staying true to tradition this time to heart.
The days started to slip past them. Soon, it would be time for Owera to leave, time to
complete the job he had left unfinished last year. Owera was scared of leaving Konoronkhwa
more than he was of failing again, dying in battle, or any number of other horrors that could
befall him on this year’s raid. He had an added goal in the raid: to gain back enough of his
reputation that he would be suitable for Konoronkhwa. He wondered often whether she would
feel the need to find someone else to keep her warm at night, someone whom she could openly
court, openly love, someone who her father and mother would approve of, or if she would wait
for him with faith and love. For he did love her. Their countless nights together had strengthened
their bond to the point that he felt uneasy without her. He ached when he had to leave, and felt
renewal at its strongest when they were reunited each afternoon.

VI
Owera had learned that time was like the river that flowed through his homeland, swift
and sure ever running in the same direction. And, like the river, there was nothing that people
like him could do to change its course. When a piece of earth, a stone, or a branch was caught in
the torrential surge, there was no power in the earth, the stone, or the branch to resist the journey
it had ahead of it. The river of Owera’s life was fast approaching the day when he would leave to
attempt to gain glory and land for his people.
First though, came the annual day of feasting customary to send the raiding parties off.
Owera kept mostly to himself, mingling amongst the fellow braves and scouts of his band, and,
to a lesser extent, the braves of other bands. He only got to see his Konoronkhwa once during the
proceedings, hating to talk to her as if he did not know her. However, he did see Konoronkhwa’s
aunt, a woman known to be quite eccentric, though very keen, eyeing them with a sly look in her
eye.
 24

Just at the point where Owera though the night was starting to drag on, Hiawatha stood
up, his great girth preceding him to the area just in front of the giant, crackling bonfire. The
Chief was greatly respected, and conversations died off in the middle when he rose.
“My children, once again we have reached the close of another winter in our homeland;
in our circle of Onatha. We experienced a grave tragedy last season, as you all know, and I will
not explore the details again, now or ever.” Owera held his head high, but dared not meet
anyone’s eye. “But sown are the seeds of victory and prosperity in the healing soil of the past
year. A newly formed warband, headed by Okwaho, will be at the forefront of our efforts this
year. They will be the ones to defeat the Kontirio warriors once and for all, and grasp the
Onathan circle they occupy.” Hiawatha’s confident voice betrayed not one bit the fear he felt that
this coming year would reap as few results as the last. “I wish not to make your heads and your
hearts heavy with hopes of us all, only to wish you good luck and Gods speed when you leave
tomorrow.”
This was met with a solid wall of cheering from the hundreds assembled. Everyone
joined in, including Owera, who, in the confusion, made his way to Konoronkhwa and gave her
hand a light squeeze.
VII
They lay for what would be the last time in the small meadow formed between the two
hills that had become their home that night.
“I will miss you greatly, Owera.”
“And I you, Konoronkhwa.”
“My heart goes with you on your journey. I know you worry about me giving it to
someone else while you are gone, but I promise you it will not happen. I entrust it to you, so that
I may miss you all the more terribly.”
They did not sleep for a long time. Only lay together, hands dancing across each other’s
skin. Only wishing the river of time could be dammed. Only stared into the icy depths of eyes
that told so much more than spoken language could. Only…
VIII
Only ran out of time. Before they knew it, the night wind had died down, and birds
heralded the world of the coming of the sun. In the last hours, Owera had somehow fallen into a
fitful sleep, as if his mind knew more than he did, knew that he must be somewhat rested for the
 25

long days of walking ahead of him. He woke to her kisses, warm and soft upon his neck and
face. He had to get going early, they had many miles to cover. Standing up, the two lovers
embraced, icy wind from the south stinging their faces, carrying the scent of breakfast from the
cooking fires.
Owera stood back and held Konoronkhwa at arm’s length. “I better leave. A long
goodbye might bring out a side of me that is considerably less than a paragon of manhood.”
“I will wait for you.”
“And I will try to make your wait worthwhile.”
“Goodbye, Owera. Do right by me.”
“Goodbye. Do not forget me, but do not forget your purpose while I am gone either.”
After a final hug, he was off. He did not look back. It was not his way.

Part IV
I
Okwaho’s warband – it was still hard for Owera to think of it as such – stopped to make
camp for the night atop a hill many miles to the south of their home. Groaning, Owera dropped
his pack and then himself to the dry dusty earth next to Kahthos, rubbing he aching muscles in
his leg.
“Surely he cannot expect this much of us every day. We will be run ragged before we
make it there, and in no condition to fight in battle.”
Kahthos hesitated before saying “I am made to think that maybe… it will help us to get
there just in time.”
“I have certainly learned to trust Okwaho’s judgement, you say true. But what do you
mean by ‘just in time’?”
Looking as if he had just awoken from a trance, Kahthos absentmindedly responded “I
actually do not know.” He cast his face away, as if in shame, although Owera knew not why.
Maybe this was the way tiredness manifested itself in his friend. He let the issue die for now,
turning to his own thoughts. As it turned out, his thoughts led directly to sleep; that was all he
had room for in his tired mind, and he fell into unconsciousness within five minutes of lying
down.
II
 26

Over the next nine days or so, Owera and the rest of the warband were led along a
grueling pace towards the spot where they would make their stand against the Kontirio. They
witnessed firsthand winter receding from the land, as the source of the great river thawed and
water came gushing down the bed. To swim or paddle in these waters now would be folly, sure
to hinder the group more by killing members than it would help by allowing fast travel. Thus,
they were forced to abandon canoes relatively much closer to the tribe’s camp than the war band
had left them last spring.
The scouts broke off from the main party of braves soon after they left the river. Their job
was to find the enemy before the loud and somewhat more boisterous braves stumbled upon
them instead.
III
“Yes,” Owera thought “Gohone’s shining moment in this year’s battle has ended, and it is
truly Adekagagwaa’s time.” Tribal legend stated that Gohone and Adekagagwaa battled
endlessly and cyclically for control of the land. Gohone, the god of winter, won out in the winter
moons and thus the land was blanketed in coldness, while Adekagagwaa, the god of summer, got
the upper hand in the summer moons, and every spring and autumn, the tides of the battle turned
to change from one to the other.
So, it was hot and sweaty that the braves of Okwaho’s warband marched into their camp
several evenings after the scout party had broken off. Their pace had slowed a small bit, but not
enough to change the fact that every single man was dog-tired from the day’s march. They laid
out their things, and a few set to building a fire to cook the remaining portion of the salted meat
of a dear they had caught two days prior.
Flames from the fire was searing the meat, making aromatic smoke and crackling noises
rise from the fire and drift in the direction of the hungry braves. As if all the spirits and Gods in
the world were aiming for the largest contrast between relaxation and terrible uneasiness
possible, the sound of marching footsteps was heard from the southwest direction. Owera had
visions of his haunting experiences rush back like waves into his troubled mind: What if it was
the scouts and everyone reacts too fast? What if it wasn’t the scouts and no one reacts fast
enough? Anxiously, his heart pounding somewhere around his throat, he saw himself mirror the
men around him and ready his weapons. After a tense moment, the attackers and/or allies finally
came into sight. There was a horrible moment when the heads Owera saw were faceless, wanting
 27

only to harm him, and his arm raised almost as if he had no control over it, then, mercilessly, the
faces filled in, faces he knew well, faces he would never hurt. A huge gasp relief was let out by
every brave present, and they awkwardly put away their weapons, thanking whatever Gods they
may thank.
IV
The scout’s news was much more joyous than their arrival: Kontirio braves had been
spotted nearby, and what was more; they looked as if they suspected nothing, they had become
arrogant and complacent from the looks of things. After hopefully routing this group, they would
continue on into the heart of the Kontirio’s Onathan circle, meeting up with the other bands that
had departed from the tribe’s own circle.
Okwaho decided that they would commence the attack in two days. This was well
received by the warband, as it meant that they would get a full day of rest before plunging into
battle.
**
They spent the next day mostly sitting around the camp they had made, sharpening their
weapons and finding other small tasks to complete. Some men did light sparring, but not much:
whatever they had learned by now would have to be sufficient. The time for new knowledge and
training had passed. That night, the men took in unison their small hunting knives and cut all but
a long thin column of hair down the center of their heads, the symbol of a warrior of the People
of the Flint.
In the night, Owera dreamed he was one of the enemy soldiers, that all his allies were
readying for attack upon him. Then he realized he was not an enemy soldier, only receiving his
final punishment for his mistakes last year. Owera woke gasping and sweating hours before
dawn. Try as he might, he could not get back to sleep, and ended up watching his fellow warriors
rise just as the sun did.
V
When he looked back on this day in the months to come, he remembered it in flashes.
Small pieces of the day would come back to his mind like a rain.
One moment, they were assembled at the crest of the hill they had made camp on, the
scene set eerily like that faithful days moons ago. Sun shone through the trees all around them.
 28

The next moment they were peering through a grove of decaying trees on the edge of the
Onathan circle, directly at the Kontirio warband. Owera remember thinking that the band was
considerably small, and that maybe they had a chance at winning after all.
Without knowing how much time had passed between one shard of memory and the next,
Owera found himself running at a sprint, lance readied, club bouncing at his side, releasing a war
cry with his brothers. He saw the stark looks of surprise on his enemies faces, thinking them
almost perfect examples of the astonished, almost as if they had prepared them to be so.
He felt the ripping of his lance into the side of one man, and immediately had his club
ready and connecting with the head of another. Arrows rained down from behind their party,
gifts from the scouts.
Before he knew it, the skirmish was over. It could have been three minutes, it could have
been thirty. Either way, the adrenaline had not drained from his body. Okwaho’s voice called out
to his warriors. “Well done, well done, we lost not a man, though the battle is far from over.” Out
of the corner of his eye, Owera saw Ratkahthos inching over to one side of the group. “I am
proud. Proud to have trained you all to-”
Ratkahthos did not allow him to finish though. In the middle of Okwaho’s sentence, he
opened his mouth, took a deep breath and bellowed with earth-shaking clarity “NOW!”
“Wha-?” was all Okwaho could say before at least three arrows ripped though his chest.
The same fate befell eleven men standing near him. The remaining men were confused and
scared. They started to move back, faster and faster.
“NO.” Owera surprised himself by uttering the single word. His anger flowed through
him now, white hot, and made him see the forest in front of him without a trace of ambiguity. He
grasped instantly that they had been betrayed by Ratkahthos, grasped that the enemy group had
seemed small because it was not the warband, but a decoy to distract them from the men
volleying arrows from further away. Grasped that Okwaho was dead. Okwaho, a man who,
however arrogant, had been a great mentor to Owera, teaching him to be a part of something
greater than himself. Teaching him to be a follower, and as Owera was about to find out,
followers were the ones who made the best leaders. Most of all he grasped that if they retreated
now, instead of facing the archers in close combat, they would surely all perish.
He had not the luxury of time. No one else would step up and take the position of the
leader they all needed. He might catch hell for taking control, but he would rather face
 29

Hiawatha’s judgment than have himself and his brothers die because he was too afraid of his past
to do what was obviously right.
“No!” he repeated. “We fight!” Owera threw his club into the air, the designs on each
side catching the sun as it spun, screamed with reckless yet calculated abandon, and caught it on
the downspin.
All the men – because for right now, they were, once again, his men – screamed with
him, turned around, and charged.
Owera and the warriors gave chase to Ratkahthos, using the sparse trees for cover,
running toward the eye of the storm; the safe spot in the battle where enemy arrows would do no
good. Upon reaching the archers, they proceeded to use all of the knowledge they had gained.
Once the archers were dispatched, which took considerable time, the reinforcements from behind
started to flood in. The crashes of club and lance and shield on each other rang out through the
woods, along with the cries of the wounded, a clear majority of whom were from the enemy side.
In fact, Owera lost not a man in that battle. For what seemed like hours, but what could truly be
only a matter of minutes, they raged against the waves of men assembled in that fateful forest.
Man after man was felled by Owera’s deadly club; the endless training had paid off, the restless
days of sprints and long runs and swims in icy cold water. Owera felt actions move from his
brain, through his nerves to his muscles, from is muscles to his weapon; small parts combining to
a massive whole. These were tough warriors, almost as tough as those in his own warband. With
some, he was locked in the spar for lengthy amounts of time before finally emerging the victor.
In the end, his personal head count topped fifteen.
His men were scattered around the large clearing where they had waged their final
assault. Bodies were strewn to all points of the wind, and his men were gasping for breath.
Slowly their eyes all found their weary way to Owera, and a low call swept through the
assembled men. “Owera!” More and more men took up the chant, until the forest was filled with
the sound of “OWERA! OWERA! OWERA!”
“Our savior,” they called him.
“Without you, we would surely have fallen to those savages,” said one man reverently.
“And the betrayer, Ratkahthos!” said another.
“I simply did what I had to. It was because of Okwaho that I had the strength and
soundness of mind needed. Each one of you played a part in this battle; do not heap the thanks on
 30

me. Embrace the man next to you, for he surely saved your life this day.” And just like that,
Owera became a leader again.
“To Okwaho!” he called. His men echoed him. “To all the men lost today!”
“Remember them!” they called back.
“But first,” Owera bared his teeth in a grim imitation of joy, “We have some business to
take care of.”
VI
Ratkahthos had indeed escaped in the confusion of battle. Owera checked all the bodies
in the camp along with the other warriors to make sure of that, practicing mercy and killing the
warriors left alive but with grievous wounds. After a short rest, the whole of which was occupied
by Owera’s worrying that Kahthos would escape, they once again gave chase to their former
ally.
**
Owera’s moccasin-clad feet pounded relentlessly on the dry, packed earth of the forest.
He was at the forefront of the running group, but he could feel his men around him through a
sixth sense. After ten minutes of running through increasingly green foliage, they broke though
the trees and made their first contact with the true Onathan circle of the Kontirio. The great
sprawling lake was to their right, crystal blue and still as a stone. On the left side of the horizon,
in the distance, was a tall mountain, still capped with pure white snow. In the middle was a great
grassy plain. A wide river cut through the middle of it, tracing a wavy line from the mountain to
the lake. On the near side of the river was the Kontirio settlement. It looked eerily similar to their
own. They could see a slowly moving herd of light-colored elk on the far side of the river, near
the outskirts of another grove of trees much like the one they were in right now.
The other thing they could see was that many battles were being fought. One on the
closer shore of the lake, one near the settlement by the far side of the lake, and another farther
down to the left.
The last thing they spotted, and the most important for now, was a single figure running
toward the Kontirio settlement: Ratkahthos.
VII
 31

Owera started a dead sprint as soon as he laid eyes on Kahthos. He would not let he
Gods-cursed man (nay, not a man, something far less) escape. He reached him a full four
hundred yards before the rest of his men did.
**
Ratkahthos knew he was being chased, but thought he had enough time to make it to the
relative protection of one of the other Kontirio warbands. The day was not going as he had
planned. When he had met the leader of the Kontirio long ago while scouting for Owera, his life
had been in grave danger. Wonder of wonders, they spared his life, thinking him useful.
Agreeing to become a sort of double agent, coward that Ratkahthos was, he gathered the
impression that they were invincible, that some savagery and recklessness saved them from any
possible downfalls. He was sure having his doubts now.
**
The robust muscles in Owera’s ankles and legs tensed; he crouched and sprang, sailed
through the air, connected with Kahthos, and brought him to the ground. They struggled for a
moment or two, but Owera came out in the position of power. Using one knee on Ratkahthos’
chest to hold him down, he readied his knife.
“Will you kill me then, Owera?” Ratkahthos’ chest was heaving; he was nearing the end
of his life, whether Owera intervened early or not.
“You must not be allowed to continue these shameful acts, Ratkahthos. You cannot be
trusted, and neither I nor any other member of my tribe will stand for it any longer.”
“You were once in my position. None dared trust you, Owera.”
“You confuse villainy with honest mistake and cowardice with confusion. Your words
mean nothing from your vile and traitorous mouth, and I will hear no more of it.” Owera raised
his knife in both hands, prepared to bring it down, and felt an eclipsing pain in his side. He
looked down and saw Ratkahthos’ left hand already bloodying from the wound he had opened in
Owera’s right side. In one sweeping movement, he switched his knife to his left hand, used his
right to take out the knife in his right side, and plunged them both into Kahthos, one in his neck,
one in his chest.

Part V
I
 32

He awoke, he was told, three days later, in the Kontirio settlement. His men had caught
up to him soon after the scene with Ratkahthos concluded. Some stayed with him, while some
went around to help mop up the other fights scattered around the Onathan circle, victories of all
of which went to the People of the Flint, though with heavy casualties. Once that was over, a
hesitant group was sent into the settlement. Their fear was misplaced though: the People were
greeted as liberators by the women, children and men who not warriors. Healers worked night
and day to save Owera, and finally they did. It hurt to breathe heavily, but he was alive and
thankful. In two weeks he would begin the long trek back home, with his own band, and another,
while some warriors would stay here and tend to the wounded and the remaining Kontirio.
II
The details of the journey back home were uneventful, but suffice it to say that it was
made longer by the limits of Owera due to his wound. His men were more than grateful to make
special concessions for him though, and they made it home in due time.
III
They returned to the Hiawatha’s Onathan circle on a gloriously sunny day. The cheers
and embraces were unreal to Owera, besides being painful. He had no senses but the one of
waiting for his love to show herself in the crowd. Finally he spotted her, not caring who saw his
urgency for her. He ran, and when he was close, she turned and saw him. Then she ran. They
caught each other and embraced for one full minute in silence. Two. Once again, like what
seemed like so long ago, Owera took a step back and held her at arms length. Then, finding that
he had no words to express his happiness, he took the step forward again and pulled her into
another hug. He was only pulled from his own universe by the loud throat-clearing of someone
to his immediate right. Looking up, he saw Hiawatha and jumped backwards away from
Konoronkhwa.
“By all means, continue.” Hiawatha laughed heartily when he saw Owera’s confused
face. “My daughter has had much time to speak to me, though I knew of your love long before
she was ready to tell me. Not a thing goes on in my tribe that I do not know about. I intend to
keep it this way. I gave you a position in the warband as a brave to test you, now tell me what
transpired in the land of the Kontirio.
**
 33

Later, Owera walked with Konoronkhwa along the river. He held her hand in his. Raised
it. Kissed it. “It is like a dream come true to be back here with you, and to be able to court you
with the permission of you father. To have all the things I want laid out in front of me.”
“I prayed for you return each day, Owera. I know the Great Spirit delivered you back to
me.”
“As do I. I cannot take all the credit, to be certain.”
“Though maybe some…” She squeezed his hand.
That night, as Konoronkhwa lay sleeping, or at least pretending to, the sound of the
courting flute drifted around her longhouse, lilting and pure notes floating lazily after each other.
IV
Once again, Owera fell into a routine, although this one had different appeals than the
last. By the time winter came again, communications between the two Onathan circles had
begun. Messengers ran back and forth constantly, and a satellite tribal headquarters was slowly
being built in the former Kontirio land.
Also by winter – news that eclipsed any from any other area, in Owera’s mind – he was a
husband. The use of the courting flute needed permission from the father of the girl being
courted. Stories of Owera’s heroism had been told far and wide in the tribe, backed up by his
own warriors, so Owera had once again fallen under the favor of the Chief, so he acquired that
easily and happily from Hiawatha. The Chief was honored to have one such as him to marry his
daughter.
The ceremony was simple; the only request, unspoken but known by each lover, was that
it be conducted in the valley where they had met. All of the tribe in Hiawatha’s Onathan circle,
as it was now known, were in attendance, ready to congratulate the newlyweds and hopefully
speak to the war hero. Owera wasn’t sure, but he though he saw a great bear at the crest of the
hill during the wedding.
V
Owera and Konoronkhwa fell under the spell that all lovers have found themselves
prisoner to. They thought themselves inseparable, they thought themselves invincible.
One morning, Owera was off in the woods as he was once a week, remembering the
warriors that died in all the battles he had been involved in, enemy and ally. With his eyes
closed, he heard her step, knew it dearly as he would all his life. She was crying. Owera had
 34

always known in the core of his being that this day would come, for he thought he knew the
reason for her tears.
Konoronkhwa had a duty to this Onathan circle. As the first daughter of the Chief and the
Clan Mother, and training to be the next Clan Mother, she had to remain here always and fulfill
her duties.
However, in looking to gain his reputation and his honor back, he had perhaps worked
too hard. The stories about him extended farther than his deeds ever could. He had become too
revered in the eyes of the people, his warriors and, most importantly, the Chief. Hiawatha
considered him the strongest and most diplomatic person in the tribe, and thus the natural choice
to lead the new Onathan circle. Hiawatha was too established here, he argued, could not move to
the new land.
**
They lay together again, like they had so long ago, in the open air, gazing at the stars.
They both shed tears, but they were afraid of wasting the little time they had together. In silent
embrace, with the moon their only companion, they became as one, sharing thoughts and warm
touches.
VI
The next morning, there was a ceremony planned to wish Owera well in the coming year
at the new Onathan circle. Hiawatha had grave but inspiring words. “I send you not to torture
you, Owera, but because I need you to go. I know what it is like to feel the burden of placing
tribe before love, but believe me, true love survives even in frigid times.” His other sentiments
were much of the same, not comforting to either Owera or Konoronkhwa, though they
appreciated the truth. “Owera, you have been more than a son to me. You have been a close ally
and a trusted advisor in the past months. I tell you now that I wish you to follow in my footsteps
once I have stepped down from my position.”
“What about the other Onathan circle?”
“In your time there, you may find it useful to train a successor in preparation for your
time here.” With a great theatrical cough, Hiawatha, the warm smile on his face influencing one
on Owera’s own, remarked, “Besides, I do not know if someone even of my advanced years and
experience is up to the job for much longer.”