3 of 19

Write now Article Tools

The night of the full moon was high and bright in the dark sky as the tribesmen gathered at the foot of the high hills to listen to a story spun in the words of Gooslap the Indian tale spinner. They sat quietly in a half circle around a roaring campfire facing the storyteller awaiting his words.

The Indian story spinner is past eighty moons and the vale of years is etched on his craggy face. His glossy grey hair is braided on the sides of his patrician face. The storyteller's square chin is proud and uplifted, and his pale brown eyes glistens in the light of the fire despite their dimness through age.

The tempo of the shaman drum beats in rhythmic taps of warrior steps as Gooslap the Indian tale spinner chants out the striking tale of a youthful Pawnee warrior. His grandmother had blessed the young brave with the name of Iokesha, the White One in the lightness of his brown skin. His story of his capitulation to a war party of Illinois braves, his wearisome captivity and his final revenge.

The palm of his hand beats steadily on the rawhide hand drum reverberating the round wooden frame as the rhythm opens the curtains to the sky above. The clansmen were enchanted as they looked above and saw the parting of the clouds. The blue of the heavens portrayed painted and feathered Indian warriors ranged in a circle shuffling in the ceremonial war-dance. A flash of lightning coursed through the sky and thunder was in the air as a large war party on the quiet tread of moccasins passed through single file through the mist of the forested heavens.

Gooslap, the teller of tales lowered the beat to the drum. Not a breath was whispered by the expectant tribesmen. The flames of the fire shot higher and they saw the shadowy forms of victorious warriors overcoming their adversary. The shout of the terrific 'sa-sa-kuon', the death whoop was heard in the snap of the burning logs.

The tap of the beating of the shaman drum is then muted and the rhythm is faintly heard... Gooslap searched the faces of the anxious tribesmen and his lips let flow an age-old tale in an ancient tongue.

Way back in ages past a certain tribe of Pawnees had built their earth lodges and raised their buffalo tepees on the shores of the Great River. For many moons they lived peacefully taking from the Good Mother their simple needs from the fertile earth, the flowing waters and the nearby forest.

It was on that fateful day in the distant past when they were surprised by their ancient enemy the Illinois. Despite brave

• 1
• 2
• 3
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about Short stories: Native American?
We want to hear your view. Write now!