Virginia -- History -- Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775 -- Fiction
He spoke now to some effect. Commencing with a day in the moon of
blossoms when for the first time winged canoes brought white men into
the Powhatan, he came down through year after year to the present hour,
ceased, and stood in silence, regarding his triumph. It was complete. In
its wild excitement the village was ready then and there to make an end
of us who had sprung to our feet and stood with our backs against a
great bay tree, facing the maddened throng. So much the best for us
would it be if the tomahawks left the hands that were drawn back to
throw, if the knives that were flourished in our faces should be buried
to the haft in our hearts, that we courted death, striving with word and
look to infuriate our executioners to the point of forgetting their
former purpose in the lust for instant vengeance. It was not to be. The
werowance spoke again, pointing to the hills with the black houses upon
them, dimly seen through the mist. A moment, and the hands clenched upon
the weapons fell; another, and we were upon the march.
As one man, the village swept through the forest toward the rising
ground that was but a few bowshots away. The young men bounded ahead to
make preparation; but the approved warriors and the old men went more
sedately, and with them walked Diccon and I, as steady of step as they.
The women and children for the most part brought up the rear, though a
few impatient hags ran past us, calling the men tortoises who would
never reach the goal. One of these women bore a great burning torch, the
flame and smoke streaming over her shoulder as she ran. Others carried
pieces of bark heaped with the slivers of pine of which every wigwam has
store.
The sun was yet to rise when we reached a hollow amongst the low red
hills. Above us were the three long houses in which they keep the image
of Okee and the mummies of their kings. These temples faced the crimson
east, and the mist was yet about them. Hideous priests, painted over
with strange devices, the stuffed skins of snakes knotted about their
heads, in their hands great rattles which they shook vehemently, rushed
through the doors and down the bank to meet us, and began to dance
around us, contorting their bodies, throwing up their arms, and making a
hellish noise. Diccon stared at them, shrugged his shoulders, and with a
grunt of contempt sat down upon a fallen tree to watch the enemy's
manoeuvres.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account