Forests Of The Night

1838 THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS IN HIS SIXTY YEARS, TSALI had never shed the blood of a white man or another Cherokee in anger or defense. But that was about to change. Sitting on a sunny boulder outside his family's cabin, Tsali was sharpening his ax blade with a wedge of shale. Nearby, his two eldest sons were employed in similar fashion, preparing their own axes for another day in the forest, hewing firewood for the approaching winter. Already, autumn's crimsons and golds were blazing through the poplars and birches high on the nearby peaks. And from the earth and stones beneath his feet, Tsali could sense the gray advance of winter. Each day the sun grew more feeble. Soon the drifts of snow would mount, a vast stillness would descend, and yet another test of the family's strength and resourcefulness would present itself. After a while, Tsali's ax blade was so sharp it could shave the sparse hair from his arm or cleave a man's skull in a single blow. Such would be its use before that day was done, though Tsali had no inkling of his fate or the ruthless men galloping toward them at that moment. Isolated on his remote riverside farm, the same land his ancestors had cultivated before him, Tsali knew nothing of the harsh changes sweeping the Cherokee Nation. All through the region, to make room for gold prospectors and white settlers, the U.S. government was systematically stripping Cherokees of their land, rounding them up and marching them halfway across the continent to the prairies of Oklahoma, then known as Indian Territory. Those who resisted were killed on the spot. On the savage trek, which became known as the Trail of Tears, thousands of Cherokees died of starvation or of disease or at the hands of the U.S. Army. A third of the entire Cherokee Nation would perish before reaching that distant land of parched soil and bleak, treeless plains. But living in his remote woodland valley, Tsali was ignorant of the events already under way and made no attempt, unlike many in his tribe, to conceal his family from capture. As they washed and mended clothes in the shade of a giant poplar by the bank of the Nantahala River, Tsali's wife and daughters laughed quietly. Their pleasing voices sounded to Tsali like the music rising from the river's endless movement. The day was blissfully cool, the sky a perfect blue canvas stretched tight across the heavens. Despite her advanced age, Tsali's wife was stiff a pleasure to his eyes. In their private times, the woman was as eager for the comfort and satisfaction of her husband's body as when they'd first wed. And he was as eager for hers. A comfort beyond all measure. His contentment was increased by his daughters' full blooming. They were becoming fine women, strong and clever, with the dark, haunting eyes of their mother. Soon Tsali would journey to Quallatown or one of the other far off settlements, introduce the girls to the clan elders, and set about finding suitable partners. As Tsali rested his gaze on the women, the rumble of hooves sounded from the west. Garbed in blue woolen uniforms with gold buttons and hats of various shapes and sizes, four horsemen broke through the nearby woods, and whooped and fired their weapons at the sky as they galloped into Tsali's clearing. Their leader took the measure of the gathering of savages, then veered toward the boulder where the old man sat and drew his blocky pistol. The soldier was tall with black hair. His eyes were close set and glittered with a bitter fury. His cheeks were densely bearded. Even from several feet away, Tsali could detect the reek of corn liquor. Barking a command, the soldier waved his pistol for Tsali to rise. The old man pulled himself to his feet and his boys ran to his side. The other three soldiers were a motley collection who more resembled vagabonds than disciplined fighting men. Having masHall, James W. is the author of 'Forests Of The Night ', published 0008 under ISBN 9780312271800 and ISBN 0312271808.