Monday, April 7, 2014


A requested story by a handsome man who once found an arrowhead. 

Cascade Mountains  +/- 500 ya

In three sun’s White Stone would be back in his village.  The sun and wind would be on his face. Here, now, he was in the cold white forest.  Behind him were the days of rain and covered skies. Why he had been chosen to take the furs to the big river villages was never truly answered. 

Two moons ago, White Stone had been told by the elders to take a rare buffalo skin and some beaded doe skins to the elders at big river village.  He was to bring back as much dried fish as he could carry and whichever baskets they would give him for this.

White Stone was not happy.  He wanted to stay in the sun and make his arrowheads and spearheads.  Sometimes the women would send their sons, asking for needles or scrapers to use for their work with the deerskins.

It was no use to argue with the elders. They had instructed him, and he done as required.  Two of the other young men were also upset by the decision, Red Dog and Black Feather had wanted to go.  As he left, heading toward the big water and setting sun, they had followed, taunting him.  Perhaps it was because these two had once raided a distance village to the south, returning with screaming women, that the elders kept them close.

White Stone was on his way home now.  While in the big river villages, one of the chief’s had offered him his daughter, if only he would stay.  White Stone had very much liked the girl, Shadow Hawk, but felt it his duty to return home to his own village.  The big river villages had given him some dried fish, but not much. And they had only one basket to spare this year.

White Stone knew the mountain he was climbing now.  It was at the very edge of his tribe’s travels, only when they hunted the big deer.  On the top of a small rise, he watched the sky and looked for signs of any activity.  It was silent.  White Stone continued on.

As he came down into a small valley, he suddenly heard a hawk screech.  The skies were empty, and the screech had sounded forced. Looking around he thought he saw a tree branch move, but after watching, all remained still.  White Stone stepped forward, and heard an unmistakable fllt just before he felt the incredible pain.

His left thigh was pierced with an arrow, the gray fletchings looking strangely familiar.  As he reached down to pull out the arrow another one just missed his ear, landing in the snow behind him.  White Stone stumbled and hobbled into the brush, crawling on his hands and knees.  From the sides of the mountain, he heard whoops and yells.  It was Red Dog and Black Feather.

The next few hours were a frigid nightmare of crawling through cold snow and mud. As it got dark he was able to hide behind a boulder.  Finally, off in the distance, he could see them light a small fire. Quietly, he crawled in the opposite direction. 

His leg was hurting terribly, and he had to get the arrow out.  As dawn approached, he found a rocky overhang.  Once under it, he collapsed and slept.  He woke late in the morning to silence, and his thigh throbbing.

Finding a few rocks and a few dried sticks he made a small fire. Using his flint blade, he cut off the protruding shaft of the arrow. He put that in his mouth.  Taking a deep breath through his nose, he pushed the arrow through his leg.

It took all his strength not to scream. The sharp arrowhead tore through muscle and skin, and the blood flowed freely.  When it finally came out he quickly put the wooden end into the fire while holding the bloody arrowhead.  A moment later, as the end glowed like a coal, he placed on the bleeding holes.  This time he did scream, and then fell back, unconscious.

It was getting dark when he awoke, the last rays of the sun shining into his face.  His leg hurt, but he didn’t feel any poison in it.  As he sat up, something cut his hand. Grimacing he picked it up.
It was the arrowhead that had gone into his leg.  Cleaning it off, he let out an oath.

The arrowhead was white, one he had made. Disgusted and angered by his tribe, he threw it onto the ground.

The next day, able to walk again, he began to make his way slowly back to Shadow Hawk.

1 comment:

  1. What a wonderful story!. I'm not surprised by Red dog and Black Feather, though.