Chapter One

North American Continent - late 1400s

Night Walker - second chief of the turtle clan of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, stood on the promontory of a bluff overlooking the bay of great water near his village.   He was a warrior of twenty-nine summers with a face that was a study in planes and angles.  He was also something of an oddity in the tribe, standing head and shoulders above every other warrior.  His shoulders were broad, his muscles as hard as the line of his jaw which, today, was clenched against the angry slap of wind blowing against his skin.  With each fierce gust, his hair, thick, black and straight as the arrows in his quiver, would lift from his shoulders to billow out behind him like the wings of a soaring eagle.  As he stood, wearing nothing but a piece of tanned deer hide tied at his waist and hanging to just above his knees,  his nostrils flared; savoring the scent of oncoming rain mixing with the ever-present tang of salty air. 

 For days, he’d been having visions that troubled his sleep - bloody visions always ending with death.  Troubled by what he believed to be a dark omen of things to come, he’d taken to standing guard on the highest point above the village.   Today, when the storm had come in without warning, churning the great water into massive waves higher than Night Walker’s head, he’d felt a foreboding similar to those in his dreams.

  Now, he stood with his feet apart, his body braced against the storm front as he looked out across the bay, watching the dark underbelly of the angry clouds covering the face of the sun.  As he watched, a long spear of fire shot out of the clouds and into the water with a loud angry hiss, sending water flying into the air.  At that point, Night Walker flinched.  The skin on his face began to tighten.  Every instinct he had signaled danger was upon them. 

A second shaft of fire pierced the clouds, stabbing into the heart of the great water and yanking his gaze from the sky to the horizon.  As it did, a shape begin to emerge from around the rocky finger of land pointing out into the water.  It was floating on the water like their canoes, but much, much larger and with big white wings filled with the angry wind.  It was unlike anything he’d ever seen and a sight that left him stunned.   The unsettled waters were rolling the big canoe from side to side, and he could see men running about on the floor of it - scrambling  like tiny insects trying to outrun a flood as waves washed over the sides.   His heart jumped, then his gut knotted as his sense of foreboding grew.  

He turned and looked down into the village.  His people were as yet unaware of anything more than the oncoming storm.  As he watched, he saw his woman, White Fawn, come out of their tipi and go to the woodpile just beyond.  She staggered once from a hard buffeting wind, then regained her footing and went about her task.   He knew what she was doing - gathering in dry wood before the storm got it wet, which made it smoke and difficult to burn.  She was a good woman - always thinking of his comfort.  The mere sight of her always made his pulse quicken.  She was his heart - the other half of his soul, and even though the Great Spirit had not blessed them with children, he loved her no less.  It wasn’t until she went back inside their dwelling that he turned back to the water.  When he did, a jolt of fear shot through him.  The great canoe was now inside  the bay, and two smaller canoes  filled with strange looking men were in the water and coming toward shore.  

Their presence was a threat to the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, even though he had no words to explain how he knew.  He began scrambling down the steep slope of the bluff, desperate to get back to the village and warn them.

                                                               *        *       *

Antonio Vargas was a pirate with an eye always on the prize just out of his reach.  For months he’d heard rumors from Spain that a man named Colombo had found a new route to the West Indies and in the process, found a land rich in treasures guarded only by a race of savages.  In other words, a place ripe for the taking.

Before he could act on the notion, an unexpected raid in the night by an English privateer had nearly decimated Vargas’s crew.  They’d  managed to escape by sailing into a fog bank.  A week later, he’d put into the nearest port, taken on more crew, and for more than a month, they’d roamed the seas without encountering another vessel or coming within sight of any kind of land.   Desperate to recoup his losses as well as his self-esteem, he’d decided to follow Colombo’s path and claim some of the easy riches for himself.  Only it hadn’t been as easy as he’d hoped. 

Now, they’d been on the water for more than two months, and Vargas was beginning to fear his decision had been a bad one when land had finally been sighted.  It was none too soon.  His men were weak and some suffering dysentery.  He needed fresh water and fresh food.  Sighting land was a godsend, but the upcoming squall at their backs was pushing them into shore far faster than he would have liked.  Praying that they would not be foundered on a hidden reef, they’d done the best that they could to navigate into the bay.  Between the swiftly approaching storm and the sheet of rain they could see coming across the ocean, he was relieved to drop anchor.  Giving orders as fast as he could shout them, Vargas’ crew scrambled to obey.

It wasn’t until the ship was secure that Vargas took the time to scan the shoreline.  Just beyond the shore, nestled up against a backdrop of trees and what appeared to be the beginning of a forest beyond, was a village.  He couldn’t tell much, but the number appeared small, no more than thirty of their dwellings.    A slow smile broke across his face.  He’d done it!  He’d found Colombo’s famous new land, too.   When he returned, he would also be lauded as a daring explorer.  All he needed was proof,  like some of the gold he heard Colombo had found.  Uncertain as to which would be wisest - ride out the storm before it hits, then go ashore - or go ashore now and take the residents by surprise, Vargas let his greed settle the debate.  If he waited,  whoever lived there might hide, taking their treasurers with them.

Barking another set of orders for boats to be lowered, Vargas watched the village through his spyglass while he waited.  When he saw movement, and savages gathering and pointing, he realized that they’d been spotted.

“Make haste!” he yelled, pointing toward shore.  “They’ve seen us!”

Three smaller boats were lowered, manned with six men apiece.  Vargas’s boat took the lead.   About halfway to shore, he looked through his spy glass again, and as he did,  his heart jumped.  Four of the savages were coming toward shore, while the rest of the members of the village had begun to gather in the background, obviously as curious about him and his men as he was about them.  The wind was still high, churning the water.  The threatening rain imminent, and yet they didn’t seem worried.  For that reason, Vargas’s concern for the storm dropped, too.   If they thought nothing of it, then neither would he.

Within minutes, the boats were beached.  Vargas vaulted out and strode forcefully through the raging surf, ignoring the rising wind and the splash of sea slapping at his legs.  Three of his men followed closely.  He could hear them cursing and muttering among themselves about the storm and the cold, angry sea.   Although more than half of them were weakened from dysentery, he was beyond creature comfort.   Greed rose like gorge within him as he watched the approaching savages.

Their skin was dark, but not as dark as a Moor.  Their hair was long and straight and seemed to be embedded with bits of feathers and what appeared to be strips of animal skin.  They came without care for the wind whipping about their faces and necks; impervious to the impending storm as they stared at him and his men in fascination.  

He didn’t know or care that they’d never seen men with light skin and hair on their faces, or see people wear clothing in warm weather that covered all of their bodies.   He fingered the scimitar at his waist, then slid the palm of his hand from it’s hasp to the dirk he’d shoved beneath his wide, leather belt.  He looked past their crude weapons and animal skins to the bright bits of what he took to be gold, mingled with strange gemstones and shells they were wearing around their necks.  His gaze focused on a small pouch hanging from a leather strip around the neck of one of the savages and imagined it filled with gold, as well.  His imagination swelled as he pictured pots of the jewel-like stones within their huts, maybe even lying about on the ground.

When the first savage stepped forward and lifted his hand in greeting, Vargas reached for his necklace.

Chief Two Crows,  principal chief of the tribe,  had been as stunned by the appearance of these men as had Night Walker.   With no reason to suspect danger, he’d willingly gone down to greet them.  But when the tall stranger with the hairy face suddenly grabbed at his medicine bag and sky stones, he grunted and knocked his hand away.

Vargas grinned, and then pointed at the chief.  “So, amigos, the savage does not want to share.”

Someone chuckled behind him as the first drops of rain began to fall.  He reached for the pouch, yanking it from around the old man’s neck before he could react, palmed his dirk, and slit his throat.

The old chief’s shock died with him as his blood spurted onto Vargas’s chest.

“Now!” Vargas screamed, and pulled a scimitar from his waist and waved it above his head.

His men swarmed from the boats.  With the rain hammering down upon them and the wind pushing against their backs, they raced toward the village, firing their small handguns and hacking at the savages without care for woman or child as they all began to run.

                                                                *       *       *

Night Walker was halfway down the cliff when he heard the first screams and what sounded like short claps of thunder.  But it wasn’t until he heard an answering war cry that he knew they were being attacked.  He flashed on the visions he’d been having.  Fear increased his speed.

He ran without thought for himself while the thunder of his own heart drowned out the sounds of the screams.  The storm was on top of him now, yet he felt none of it.  The fear in his belly lent speed to his strides.  Tree limbs slapped at his face and against his chest, marking the smooth brown flesh with long, angry streaks - bringing blood that was quickly washed away by the torrent of rain.  Night Walker felt none of it - not the sharp, burning pain from the thorny limbs ripping away his flesh, or the blood and rain pouring down his body.   Even though he couldn’t hear her, White Fawn’s face was before him - her name echoing within his heart.  He felt her panic - knew something terrible was happening to her, and he was not going to be fast enough to save her.  

When he finally burst out of the forest into the clearing, it was to horror.  What he saw was worse than his nightmares - more bloody than his visions. 

The enemy had come and the enemy had killed.

 Everyone. 

Everything was destroyed. 

The only signs of life were the strangers - ripping clothing from The People’s bodies - yanking totems and medicine bags from around their necks.  Laughing as if their greatest joy in life was desecration. 

When Night Walker saw a tall man with a hairy face reach down and rip the sky stone from around White Fawn’s neck, shock rolled through him.  Her head lolled lifelessly as the man shoved her limp body aside with his foot.  He saw the rain pouring down into her dark, unseeing eyes, flooding her nostrils, washing the blood from her face. 

He screamed -  first in horror -  then in rage. 

With the bodies of his people strewn about like maize husks tossed by the wind, he pulled the first arrow from his quiver, notched it into the bow and took aim.  The arrow cut through the downpour in a blur, piercing the throat of a man called Rawlings.  Rawlings dropped the booty he’d been carrying and grabbed at both sides of the shaft.  His eyes bulged as a bubble of blood popped on his lips.  He was dead before he hit the ground.

Night Walker notched another arrow, took aim and let fly, watching with grim satisfaction as one by one, the unsuspecting pirates dropped where they stood.  Their cries of pain or shock went unnoticed by the others, drowned out by the sound of the storm and the downpour.    He fired off another arrow,  then another, then another, until he’d emptied his quiver, leaving Vargas with far less men than when he’d landed. 

It wasn’t until he grabbed a spear from a nearby hut and began running toward them, screaming an endless war cry, that the others realized he was there.  A man named Miguelito Colon saw him coming and shouted at Vargas over the storm. 

Vargas spun just in time to see a savage run Colon through with a spear.  Even though he was accustomed to hand-to-hand combat, he flinched as Colon’s guts spilled out on the ground.

Vargas roared in anger, surprised by the savage’s sudden appearance, as well as the shocking number of his crew that now lay dead.  As the rain blurred his vision, a cold wind whipped through the village, suddenly chilling him to the bone. 

At that moment, it did cross his mind that he should have waited until the storm passed before coming ashore.  But nothing could change what was, and the savage was only one man - little more than a lingering nuisance. 

“Get him!” he shouted, waving his men toward the tall, nearly naked man coming at them on the run.

Arturo Medajine grabbed for his hand gun, took aim and fired.  But the powder was soaked and by the time he dropped it to reach for his sword, the savage was upon him.  

Night Walker swung a wooden club as he passed, cracking Medajine’s skull.   The man never knew what hit him.

Night Walker’s gaze was still fixed on the man who’d killed White Fawn.  As he passed her grandfather’s body, he grabbed the spear from Brown Owl’s lifeless hands then leaped a small child’s body.

The next of Vargas’s men to go at the savage came at him with a broad sword.  Night Walker dodged, then speared him in the gut.  The pirate was still screaming as Night Walker took the sword out of his hands and decapitated him where he stood.   

Vargas was shocked.  The savage was still alive and downing his men in great number.   Compared to the others they’d encountered, this one was extremely tall - as tall as Vargas.  Before he could react,  it thundered, rattling the ground on which they stood.  The lightning bolt that followed struck nearby - so close that they were all momentarily blinded.  By the time Vargas could see clearly again, the savage was less than a hundred yards away and another of his men was dead.

His fingers tightened around the hasp of his scimitar as a storm gust staggered him.

“Damnation,” he cursed, and then swung it in the air.  “Peron!  The savage!  Stop him!”

Luis Peron was at home on the deck of a ship, but in his weakened state of health and slogging around in the mud with the armload of furs he’d just dragged out of a hut, he was at a huge disadvantage.  Still, Vargas was his Captain, and orders were to be obeyed.  He dropped the furs and was reaching for the knife in his belt when a blow from the broadsword split his breastbone. 

He dropped where he stood.

Vargas’s heart ricocheted against his ribcage.  This wasn’t happening.  He’d fought the most heinous of men - in seaports - on the sea - in the dark - beneath the subtle glow of a full moon - even in the alleyways of London, England in full daylight.  So why was killing one savage becoming such a difficult feat? 

Nervous now that his men were too few, and knowing he was dangerously out of his element, Vargas began to retreat, taking the remaining men with him.

“Back to the boats!” he yelled, and then without waiting to see who followed, started running, now facing the full blow of the storm. 

The remaining few sailors gladly obeyed and headed for the boats, following Vargas’s retreat.  But for every step Vargas took, the storm slowed him by two.   Afraid to look over his shoulder - afraid to slow down - all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other, lengthening his stride. 

                                                              *        *        *

Even though the intruders were falling one by one beneath Night Walker’s hand, there was no satisfaction.  Revenge would not be done until he had spilled the blood of the man who’d  cut White Fawn’s throat and ripped away her medicine pouch.   Not until he watched the tall hairy-faced thief draw his last breath would the fire in his gut cease to burn. 

When the invaders suddenly turned away and began running back to their canoes, Night Walker panicked..  They couldn’t escape!  They had to pay for what they’d done. 

He caught up with the slowest of them within seconds, grabbed him by the hair hanging out from under a water-sodden hat and yanked.

Samuel Hawkins had one last glance of the sky before Night Walker’s flint knife sliced across his jugular.  He felt a sharp, stinging sensation - saw an arterial spray of something red shoot across his line of vision - then everything went dark.

Night Walker only grunted as the man fell at his feet.  It was nothing but one less man between him and the one who’d killed White Fawn.

Another flash of lightning shot out of the clouds, striking the bluff on which Night Walker had been standing only a short time ago, momentarily blinding him.  Even as he kept running, there was a subconscious part of him that wished he’d still been on that bluff when the fire had come down.  Then he wouldn’t be feeling this horrible, rending pain.  Then he wouldn’t have to face burying every person he’d ever known and loved.

By the time his vision cleared,  the strangers were at the edge of the great water and pushing off from shore,  piling into one canoe as fast as they could climb, leaving the other canoe behind.   Rage surged as he lengthened his stride.  He couldn’t let them get away.  Not now.  Not when he was so close.  

Then he saw the tall one - the leader - leap into the canoe as his men pushed it out into the water.  He saw him grabbing oars and beginning to paddle against the surge.   Still a distance from shore,  he knew revenge was slipping away.  When the other men began to row as well, he knew his chance was gone.

By the time he reached the water, they were gone, but his rage and fury was not.   He ran out into the surf until the backwash from the storm was hitting him at his knees.  He lifted his arms above his head, screaming into the storm - cursing the man with White Fawn’s sky stones - calling for the Old Ones, pleading with the Great Spirit - offering his soul for the right to avenge the deaths of White Fawn and the dead Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya. 

As the canoe moved farther and farther away, he reluctantly backed up until he was all the way out of the water.  He screamed and shouted, pointing toward the canoe, then slapping his chest and opening his arms as if embracing the storm. 

He was daring them to come back - to face him man to man - to give him a chance to avenge his people in an honorable way.  But it was obvious these men had no honor because they kept rowing in the opposite direction.

                                                                *       *       *

Vargas couldn’t believe it.  The bastard was still daring them - slapping at his chest as if offering the broad expanse as a target.  After the humiliation of turning tail and running, he couldn’t resist the offer, but he was too far away to throw a knife and his pistol was empty.  He wasn’t sure if he could get a decent load  in this downpour, but he was damn sure going to try.  He pulled off his jacket and crouched down in the boat then pulled it over his head.  Using it as a cover, he began trying to load his gun.  The boat was rocking so hard he kept spilling his powder.  Twice he dropped lead shot.  His hands were shaking from exertion, but his determination won out.   Rising from the bottom of the boat like Neptune coming up from the bottom of the sea, he threw off his jacket, stepped up onto a seat, bracing his stance against the rock and roll of the boat while taking quick aim.  The savage was still there, holding his arms out at his side and shouting words Vargas could not understand, although the meaning was clear. 

He took aim and fired.

The sound of the shot was still ringing in his ears.  Even through the downpour, he could smell the burn of powder.  In his mind, he could almost see the shot spanning the distance between himself and the savage on shore. 

He held his breath - waiting to see the savage drop,  just as the others had done.  Only then would the whole sorry sortie would be behind him.

                                                                *       *       *

Night Walker had screamed until his voice was nearly gone.  He’d prayed and begged and cursed the Old Ones, demanding to know why he alone had been spared.  The muscles in his body were starting to tremor.  His gut was in a knot of pain.  He’d pulled at his hair and ripped his own flesh with his fingernails, needing satisfaction - wanting to die.

Then he saw the leader suddenly stand up in the canoe and point at him.

He screamed into the wind and slapped his own chest over and over, daring him to come back and fight, but they were still moving in the other direction. 

There was a loud noise, and then everything, including time, seemed to slow down.  It was still raining, but suddenly if was as if he was seeing each raindrop as it fell -  hearing his own heartbeat over the roll of thunder -  feeling the exhale of his own breath more sharply than the wind hitting him in the face.   In the midst of that reality, he saw something fly from the hand of the man who’d killed White Fawn - coming at him - cutting through the rain - pushing aside the flow of air in a high-pitched whistle. 

He stopped, his arms dropping at his side as he watched it come, accepting that this was it.  The Old Ones had heard his prayer.  Whatever this was, it would end his life in battle in an honorable way.  He would join White Fawn and the others.  He would not walk this land alone.

He waited.  Unblinking.  Barely breathing.  Watching as death came for him.

Then it hit. 

He waited to feel pain.

 Expected to see his own blood pouring down his chest. 

Instead, it bounced - off the broad expanse of his chest and into the sand. 

He grabbed his chest in disbelief. 

“No!” he screamed, then spun toward the village, staring at the bodies, willing them to rise up and walk.  This couldn’t be happening. 

He’d tried to avenge them, but the enemy was getting away. 

He’d tried to die to be with them, but he’d failed at that, too. 

He looked over his shoulder.  The man in the canoe was staring at him in disbelief.  Night Walker’s misery was complete.   He didn’t know that the wind had died and the rain had quit falling.  All he could think about was his losses. 

Then the clouds parted and a single ray of light poured out of it and down onto the shore - bathing him in what felt like fire. 

So... now I will die.

He arched his back, lifted his arms above his head, closed his eyes, and waited to be consumed.  Instead, he heard drums, then voices chanting, and even though he couldn’t see them, he knew he was in the presence of The Old Ones.   When their voices turned into words, he fell to his knees.

“Night Walker - son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya - son of the Turtle Clan - we hear you.  We hear you.  Brave son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya - you have fought well - you have honored us in life as you honor us in death.  Look now to the great waters - look upon the face of your enemy and know that whatever face he wears, you will always feel his heartbeat.  Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya - we have heard your prayer.   Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, listen to our words.  You will live until the blood of your enemy is spilled upon your feet.   You will live until you feel his last breath on your face, then and only then will you be as all men.  Then and only then will you suffer and grow old.  Then and only then will you live until you die.  But for now - it as you have asked - you will live.  You will live.  You will live.

The light disappeared.  The clouds blew away.   Night Walker swayed, then staggered where he stood.  The Old Ones were silent.  The fire was gone and he was not consumed.  He looked to the water.  The enemy was climbing aboard the great canoe and scrambling about like they were crazed.  

He saw the tall bearded man standing at the front of the canoe, staring toward shore.   He felt the man’s blood pulsing through his body in an urgent, panicked gush.  He didn’t know the pirates had witnessed his baptism in fire, expecting to see him incinerated.   He didn’t know that they’d already begun talking about him in hushed tones, attributing magic powers to the fact that he’d been shot and it had bounced off his body like a single drop of rain.  That he’d been struck by lightning and walked away unharmed. 

All Night Walker knew was he’d been given a promise that he wasn’t going to waste.  Even if it took a thousand lifetimes, no matter what face he wore, he knew how to find the enemy.

                                                               *       *        *

 Vargas was afraid.  He didn’t know what had just happened, but he when it came to the supernatural, he was out of his element.  Yet what other explanation could there be?  The savage had killed more than twelve of his men single-handedly, been shot without suffering a wound, and been struck by lightning without being burned.  He should be dead, and yet they were the ones on the run, and he was standing alone back on shore watching them go.

He knew his crew was scared.  They’d all gotten into something they didn’t understand.   But it was over.  It was over and he was still alive to tell the tale.  He wanted to move away - to turn his back on the whole thing and pretend it never happened.  But there was the matter of all those dead men, and the still pressing need for fresh food and water. 

He felt the eyes of his men on him - waiting to see what happened next.  He’d lost face when he’d let one man - and a savage at that - put him on the run.  He turned his back on shore and faced the crew. 

“Hoist the anchor!” he shouted.

Even though two men ran to do his bidding, no one would look at him.  A shiver of fear ran through him.  Sailors were a superstitious lot.  If they lost trust in him, his own life was in danger.

He shoved one of the crew who was running past him.   “Weakling!  Make haste or I’ll feed you to the fishes.”

The sailor staggered, quickly righting himself before hurrying to do what he’d been told.  The Captain was angry.  They all knew him well enough to know that he’d take his anger out on whoever was closest. 

But the ones who’d been on shore with Vargas weren’t afraid of him - not any more.  They’d seen him panic.  They’d seen him turn tail from only one savage and run like a woman toward safety.  They were sick and hungry, and someone needed to be blamed for their situation.  Vargas was the logical target.

By the time the moon rose that night, Vargas was standing at the end of the plank, begging for his life.  It never struck him that the savages he’d killed that morning had been doing the same thing.  He didn’t feel remorse for what he’d done to them - only that his life was going to end in such a demoralizing fashion.

A shot rang out.

Unlike the savage he’d shot at that morning, this shot quickly found it’s mark.  He felt a fire in his chest and then he was falling, falling. 

Water closed over his face, then washed up his nose, choking off the curses he was heaping on the heads of his mutinous crew.  The last image that swept through his mind before he died was of the savage -  pointing at him from shore.