Chris Blake - Mohican Brave

“I wonder if we’re the only people here,” Tom said aloud.

An odd warbling noise suddenly echoed through the woods. Moments later, a flock of birds trotted into view. Dark feathers fanned out from their backs, and lumpy red skin dangled from their necks.

Zuma hid behind Tom and shuddered. “Ugh!” she said. “Are those hideous creatures dangerous too?”

Tom laughed. “No,” he said. “Turkeys won’t hurt you, they just look strange.”

“I think you mean ugly ,” said Zuma. Suddenly, her eyes went wide and she pointed. “Duck!” she cried, pulling on his arm.

“Not duck, turkey ,” Tom corrected her.

“No … duck !” Zuma dropped to the ground, just as an arrow came whizzing over her head.

Too late, Tom understood what she was saying. He whirled round in the direction the arrow had come from and saw a flash of feathers sticking out from behind a tree. Then he heard a thwang and a whoosh …

Another arrow flew through the air and tore through his shoulder.

“Owwwww!” Tom howled in pain.

He looked at his arm. The sleeve of his buckskin shirt had torn and blood was trickling out of a gash.

“Tom!” cried Zuma, pulling him to the ground. “Are you OK?”

Tom nodded and tried not to let out another moan. “I don’t think it’s too deep,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I guess that answers your question,” Zuma said, as another arrow whizzed past them. They caught a flash of bright feathers sticking out from behind a tree trunk.

“What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“We definitely aren’t the only people around!” Zuma said. “And whoever else is here doesn’t seem very happy about having company!”

A dark-haired figure dressed in buckskins stepped out from behind the tree, his bow poised, an arrow already held against the taut string.

And it was pointed directly at Tom’s heart.

“Please don’t shoot!” said Tom, hoping that the stranger would understand him. That’s how Tlaloc’s magic had always worked in the past. But with an arrow aimed straight at his chest, he couldn’t take anything for granted. Tom put his hands in the air to show the stranger he meant no harm.

As the stranger came closer, Tom could see that he was only a boy, not much older than they were. He wore brilliantly beaded buckskins and his cheeks were smeared with swirls of yellow and red paint. Like Zuma, his long hair had been wound into two glossy plaits. Around his forehead was a beaded band with two bright crimson feathers sticking out of it.

“I like your paint and feathers,” Zuma remarked in her friendliest voice. “Have you ever thought of trying a bit of blue? It’s not a bad look.”

The boy blinked at her, confused.

“It’s probably not the time to give him fashion advice,” Tom whispered, “when he’s got an arrow pointed at my chest.”

As if remembering what he was doing, the boy quickly lowered the weapon. Tom heaved a sigh of relief.

“I’m so sorry!” said the boy. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you were a deer.” He gave them an embarrassed grin. “Actually, I hoped you were.”

“Don’t worry,” said Tom, clutching his wounded arm. “Accidents happen.”

The boy bent down to examine Tom’s wound. “It’s not too bad,” he said. “But it’s still bleeding.” He crouched beside the roots of a tall tree and gathered up a handful of green moss.

“This is no time for gardening,” huffed Zuma.

The boy laughed. “This isn’t gardening, it’s medicine.” A dark look passed over his face as something had just occurred to him. “You’re not Mohawk, are you?”

“I’m an Aztec,” said Zuma.

“And I’m British,” said Tom.

The boy thought it over, then shrugged. “I do not know either of those tribes. But as long as you’re not Mohawk, I am happy to help you.”

Tom watched as the boy pressed the clump of fuzzy green moss to his cut. In seconds, the moss soaked up the blood.

“That’s clever,” said Tom.

“Yes,” said the boy, crossing to a young willow tree and peeling off some strips of bark. “And this willow bark will make a good healing tonic once I take it home and boil it up. Do you feel well enough to walk to my village? It’s not far, just round the bend there.”

“Village?” said Zuma, sounding relieved. “So there are other people here?”

The boy nodded and helped Tom to his feet. “Yes. My people are called the Mohican.” He started walking towards the water. Tom and Zuma followed.

“My name is Rising Sun,” the boy said. “What are you called?”

Tom replied for both of them. “I’m Tom, and this is Zuma.”

Chilli let out an indignant bark.

“And this is Chilli,” added Zuma, giving the dog a pat.

As they travelled through the woods, Tom noticed how silently Rising Sun moved, avoiding things like fallen twigs. Tom copied him, trying to walk as quietly as he could.

“We call ourselves Mohican,” Rising Sun explained, “because it means ‘People of the waters that are never still’.”

Tom eyed the swift current churning under the surface of the wide blue river. It sparkled in the autumn sunlight. “I can see why,” he said.

“Why were you worried that we might be members of the Mohawk tribe?” Zuma asked.

Rising Sun scowled. “Because they are enemies of the Mohicans. They live on the other side of the river. And they are trying to drive us away so they can have these hunting grounds for themselves.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair,” said Zuma.

“Is that why you’re wearing war paint?” Tom asked excitedly. “Because you’re going into battle with the Mohawk?”

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