Cain's Curse
A man that studies revenge keeps his own wounds green.
Francis Bacon
Prologue
The night sounds enclosed Mingo's comfortable camp. The tiny fire contained in the fire ring cast minimal shadows into the dense forest. Above him the bright summer moon sent cool blue beams to bathe his body. Relaxing with his last cup of coffee before sleep, he leaned back against the smooth sycamore bark and allowed his mind to wander. Nearby in an ancient oak a horned owl called. Considered a messenger by his Cherokee people, the owl's distinctive call could be a harbinger of doom or blessing. A small smile lifted Mingo's lips. "Which is it, my brother?" he questioned of the feathered crier.
He knew he possessed a distinctive caution when dealing with the supernatural world. With a small chuckle he remembered the words of Daniel Boone years before. In his mind he saw the eerie massacre site known as Wisachu. "It's not the English part of you that makes you want to jump at shadows," the sturdy frontiersman had pointed out. Again the owl's muted cry drifted from the forest oak.
Mingo's mind drew more memories from deep inside his heart. He was small, maybe five years old, sitting in Menewa's lodge listening to his two uncles fashion tales as the winter wind blew from the north. His mother and aunts carefully sewed new footwear for the family, their dark eyes intent on the work in their laps. Menewa glanced at his small nephew. His face bathed by the light of the flickering flames, his voice a whisper, he disclosed the ending of the story.
Talota glanced up at her brother's face, then over to her small son. An uncontrollable shiver ran up the child's spine, his large eyes filled with fright. But he did not cry out or seek the comfort of her arms. Bravely he resettled his small frame on the deer hide and faced his uncle. "E-du-tsi, why is North Wind so angry? Have we displeased him somehow?" Outside the lodge the wind pushed strongly against the sturdy walls. Mingo's childish voice quivered as he asked the most serious question. "Have I angered North Wind?"
A small cry of displeasure escaped Talota. She glared at her brother, all her mother's protective instincts visible in her eyes. Menewa shifted on his hide to escape his sister's disapproval. On the far side of the circle John Murray resettled himself impatiently. The practice of spending evenings with Talota's family often irritated the British officer. Now he faced Menewa with obvious distain. "Nonsense, Mingo! The wind is not a living thing, like a man, that you can anger. It is simply a force of nature."
Menewa's thin lips pressed tightly together at the degree of rudeness displayed by his brother-in-law. Not only was he challenging one of Chota's most important men, his own relative, but he was dismissing generations of Cherokee beliefs as false and ridiculous. Facing the officer, Menewa spoke directly to the foolish man. "Wisdom is a gift that is given when one is willing to listen, no matter the age."
The criticism was obvious to everyone in the lodge, even Mingo. His face displayed distress at having caused the sharp exchange of words. He saw John's jaw clench in anger. Leaping to his feet, he watched as the British officer flung aside the heavy bear hide and escaped through the door into the winter night. Unable to control the heavy sigh that lifted his chest, Mingo dropped his head in sorrow.
Silence settled in the firelit lodge. Talota finished the seam on her son's boot, stood, and held out her hand. Mingo took it. Together they walked to the doorway. Talota turned and faced her rigid brother. "My husband does not understand. He does not know that wind is alive, as is stone, or earth. Forgive him, brother."
Menewa raised his head and held his sister's eyes. Seconds later his gaze shifted to the boy standing quietly at her side, his hand in hers. The words floated softly into the warm lodge. "Mingo, never forget what you know is true. Understand me? Never forget."