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PRELUDE TO MANHOOD

word count approximately 1500

At the edge of the Great Cliff I sit cross legged in old Indian fashion. My dress and war paint have been prepared in the way of my Chintook forefathers, and my grandmother's blanket is wrapped about me as protection, to keep me from following the tribe before my time. All is ready, and I wait.

I do not have to wait long. From my perch far above the Warrior Valley, I hear the ancient thunder of horses rising with the sun. My eyes and ears are closed it is with my heart that I listen as my ancestors ready themselves to fight for the honour of Totem Warrior. When the horses stop, I know that they are in turn waiting for me. They are in my mind, but enough so. With a mighty thrust of concentration, I cast my soul to the winds of time. Like the net of the fisherman, it catches and holds what I seek, and I am there with them.

The Chintooks are a very devout people, in their way. The women are chanting prayers while the rest of the braves and I sit in a circle, silently asking our totems for protection and honour in the upcoming battle.

My totem is the owl, who is wise and can take flight from danger. It will keep me from harm as long as I have faith and trust it for guidance. I would be foolish not to. I know by looking around me that my brother warriors feel the same. The shaman pours a sacred oil on the fire to seal the prayers, make them stick. The thick smoke is choking, but this can't be helped. The smell must be on our bodies for our totems to find us in all the confusion of the challenge. Somehow, they know one man's smell from another.
It is time for the battle ceremony, and the elders and the women with their children all get up to do a dance of luck. Good magic comes from their feet, which rise and fall in perfect harmony with the beat of the drums. Everything is so exciting, but father time is moving his hands too slowly, and we wish for the ceremony to be over, to send us on our way to face the spirit gods.
We are getting so anxious that we do not hear the final notes, nor feel the vibrations that the feet shoot out to each of us. Sure as the arrow finds the bear at the end of a hunt, the long talons of luck reach us unobserved. Our thoughts are elsewhere. Which brave (if any) will be the one to get his face on the Oshwigana? I wish with all my heart that it could be me, but I know better. This is my first try, and I am still very young and inexperienced. Besides, my grandmother's blanket keeps me from that final

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