The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby Read Online Free
impossible, or is the veneer separating the two so thin that the difference does not really exist at all?
The velvet touch of his papa’s gentle hand upon his forehead released the worried wrinkles and allowed him once again to hear. He heard his Papa’s voice, this time very close to him say, “Tyoga. When you open your eyes it will be as if you are experiencing the world for the very first time. Don’t be afraid. From this moment on, you’ll be one with the trees and the air and the sun. The eagle will guide you. The raven will settle you. The whisper of the wind will prepare you. You will never know fear again. Your courage will inspire your friends and frighten your enemies.
“But, my son, your journey has only begun. The gift of the promise allows you to hear, but understanding its message will require more. You will be tested by the very power that has awakened you. But beware the victory. For in the spoils lie both a blessing and a curse. The choice you make will set your course for the rest of your life. I hope that you choose mercy. I pray that the price exacted for your kindness is less than the loss of your soul.”
Thomas looked down at his young son and noticed the difference. He felt the tears filling his eyes, and looked off into the distance.
Patting his son on the shoulder, he added, “All things happen only as they must. There is no right or wrong in the doing, it is only in the outcome that these things are marked. Be strong, my son. Now open your eyes.”
Tyoga opened his eyes and slowly surveyed his surroundings from horizon to horizon.
“Papa, I know.”
Part One
1694
The Legend is Born
Chapter 1
Trapped
I t was a beautiful autumn day. The mountain sky was deep azure blue. The valley breeze carried the scent of the harvest and the sounds of the forest creatures preparing for the lean winter months ahead. Black bears were gorging themselves on the last of the blueberries and wild huckleberries that grew along the mountain trails. Enormous sunflowers, their gigantic yellow-wreathed heads bowed in acknowledgment of unheard applause, were alive with the cackle of ravens and jays as they feasted upon the bursting seedpod. The beavers were felling ash and elm to reinforce their sturdy dams, and stockpiling succulent birch branches in their underwater pantries. Scouting the hollows of Appalachia, she-wolves searched for a deep burrow in which they and their cubs could survive the brutal forces of the mountaintop winters.
In the late 1600s, the peaks of the Appalachain Mountains and the dark glades of the Shenandoah Valley were still the frontier wilderness. Little was known about the land west of the Mississippi River. The remarkable expedition of Lewis and Clark would not happen until the end of the century. Only the hardiest mountain men braved the unknown dangers of hidden mountain passes.
The pristine land was rich with the gift of life, and bursting with the promise of renewal anchored in the permanence of granite, quartz, and pyrites. The rivers and streams etched the land with serpentine runs of sparkling clarity. Thunderous waterfalls flooded cavernous gorges, and lacey traces carved their delicate patterns on moss-covered canvases of marbled slate. The forests were filled with the majestic canopies of five-hundred-year-old chestnut trees with their enormous boughs rising to the heavens in joyous celebration of the life they nourished and sheltered below. Ancient pines, birch, cedar, elm, maple, walnut and hickory carpeted the undulating landscape for as far as the eye could see.
The ridges of the Appalachains obscured the valleys below like ocean waves hiding their shadowing troughs. The cool air rising from their depths on a leeward ridge was the only hint of their existence. The air was crisp, clean, and clear.
There was no sound. The silence was broken only by the whisper of the wind in the pines, the murmur of cascading mountain streams, and the bark of frolicking
The velvet touch of his papa’s gentle hand upon his forehead released the worried wrinkles and allowed him once again to hear. He heard his Papa’s voice, this time very close to him say, “Tyoga. When you open your eyes it will be as if you are experiencing the world for the very first time. Don’t be afraid. From this moment on, you’ll be one with the trees and the air and the sun. The eagle will guide you. The raven will settle you. The whisper of the wind will prepare you. You will never know fear again. Your courage will inspire your friends and frighten your enemies.
“But, my son, your journey has only begun. The gift of the promise allows you to hear, but understanding its message will require more. You will be tested by the very power that has awakened you. But beware the victory. For in the spoils lie both a blessing and a curse. The choice you make will set your course for the rest of your life. I hope that you choose mercy. I pray that the price exacted for your kindness is less than the loss of your soul.”
Thomas looked down at his young son and noticed the difference. He felt the tears filling his eyes, and looked off into the distance.
Patting his son on the shoulder, he added, “All things happen only as they must. There is no right or wrong in the doing, it is only in the outcome that these things are marked. Be strong, my son. Now open your eyes.”
Tyoga opened his eyes and slowly surveyed his surroundings from horizon to horizon.
“Papa, I know.”
Part One
1694
The Legend is Born
Chapter 1
Trapped
I t was a beautiful autumn day. The mountain sky was deep azure blue. The valley breeze carried the scent of the harvest and the sounds of the forest creatures preparing for the lean winter months ahead. Black bears were gorging themselves on the last of the blueberries and wild huckleberries that grew along the mountain trails. Enormous sunflowers, their gigantic yellow-wreathed heads bowed in acknowledgment of unheard applause, were alive with the cackle of ravens and jays as they feasted upon the bursting seedpod. The beavers were felling ash and elm to reinforce their sturdy dams, and stockpiling succulent birch branches in their underwater pantries. Scouting the hollows of Appalachia, she-wolves searched for a deep burrow in which they and their cubs could survive the brutal forces of the mountaintop winters.
In the late 1600s, the peaks of the Appalachain Mountains and the dark glades of the Shenandoah Valley were still the frontier wilderness. Little was known about the land west of the Mississippi River. The remarkable expedition of Lewis and Clark would not happen until the end of the century. Only the hardiest mountain men braved the unknown dangers of hidden mountain passes.
The pristine land was rich with the gift of life, and bursting with the promise of renewal anchored in the permanence of granite, quartz, and pyrites. The rivers and streams etched the land with serpentine runs of sparkling clarity. Thunderous waterfalls flooded cavernous gorges, and lacey traces carved their delicate patterns on moss-covered canvases of marbled slate. The forests were filled with the majestic canopies of five-hundred-year-old chestnut trees with their enormous boughs rising to the heavens in joyous celebration of the life they nourished and sheltered below. Ancient pines, birch, cedar, elm, maple, walnut and hickory carpeted the undulating landscape for as far as the eye could see.
The ridges of the Appalachains obscured the valleys below like ocean waves hiding their shadowing troughs. The cool air rising from their depths on a leeward ridge was the only hint of their existence. The air was crisp, clean, and clear.
There was no sound. The silence was broken only by the whisper of the wind in the pines, the murmur of cascading mountain streams, and the bark of frolicking
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