Song of the Eagle

Song of the Eagle

Being the Third Book of the Chronicles of the Stone

A novel by Barry Brailsford

Copyright 2013 Barry Brailsford

Second edition

Published by StonePrint Press Ltd, NZ www.stoneprint.co.nz

SMASHWORDS EDITION 1, September 2012

Barry Brailsford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Permission for readings at occasions of celebration is freely offered.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Cover: Wenetia Publications

Ebook conversion: Peter Harris www.ebookuploader.com

Dedication

To the Ancestors who kept the dream of peace alive and the Elders who carried it forward in trust.

Nga mihi aroha ki a koutou… aloha… mitakuye oyasin.

To the Hai-da Nation for bringing the old ways into this time, for rekindling the dream of going to the long tides again.

Acknowledgements

My thanks to elder Woodrow Morrison and his son Woodrow F Morrison Jr, who bravely carried the old songs into tomorrow.

Within the First Nations peoples I thank the pipe makers and the pipe carriers, the silent ones who still honour the sacred.

Contents

1. The Tides of Chaos

2. The Call of the Ancients

3. The Birthing Stars

4. The Realms of the Lost

5. The Gathering Way

6. The Companions of the Stone

7. The Gift from the Ocean

8. The Cry of the Stone

9. The Battle of the Claw

10. The Long White Trail

Praise for Barry Brailsford’s Books

Also by Barry Brailsford

Gather close if you

seek the door to other realms.

Open wide the corridors of the mind to

walk the trails of light

through the dark valleys of the night.

Listen to the words that

dance to songs long forgotten.

Stone is the ancestor of all.

It is of the beginning

and the timeless spirit

that joins star to star

and age to age.

Out of stone comes life.

We are of the stone

and the stone is of us.

Hold it close and feel its power,

hear its song and prepare

to enter realms known

but long forgotten.

Journey well, friend

and may the good go with you.

The Tides of Chaos

Eagle, come fly the fire, the waters and the stone. Tell how wide the oceans be, how high the mountains and how great the Spirit that watches over all. Come fly the fire to set all free.

Once again the Story Teller sat in the silence that always preceded a new telling of the Chronicles. He wondered how those gathered to this circle would receive the old words. Would they follow him into the realms of the eagle and find joy in the soaring spirit? Would they bridge the years between and come to the days of the ancestors with the excitement and yearning that is of the magic? So much wisdom put aside and so few left to carry it on. It was time to speak, to share and trust. Thus did he begin.

vvvvv

The rock pinnacle rose steeply out of the waves that played quietly along its base. It once carried an ancient name of power... heart of the sea lion thrust up from under the waves. No threat to the stone here, for this towering Rampart guarded a sheltered bay, the home of the Hai-da. The tides moved calmly within this timeless haven where the outer islands, and the curve of the distant headland, held back the fury of the open sea. Protected by rock open to spray and sky, cleaved and shaped by the mauling hand of glacial ice long melted to ocean. All that created so long ago, yet marked forever in the lines that deeply scarred its surface. A Rampart to time… the ageless voice of the wind and the song of the stars.

Only sedge and small hardy plants found comfort on the narrow ledges and crevices of the lower reaches of the Rampart. However, half way up, where a broader shelf of rock in centuries past allowed the heaping of litter, a pocket of soil had gathered. Into this welcoming bed was gifted a seed by the tall sitka spruce that spanned the summit. Breaking open in days long forgotten, it sent forth a fragile shoot to reach for the Sun. Nurtured by the magic of the light, its tiny roots quested along the stone and, taking hold in deep cracks, grew ever stronger. Thus did one giant sitka come to embrace the Rampart like no other. One tree alone, fronting the sweep of the tides and backed by a soaring wall of stone. A tree that responded to the swift thrust of the storm by clasping the rock ever harder. A tree that became the favourite home of one line of sea eagles for countless generations.

Year after year, season upon season the eagles built and rebuilt the nest founded within its huge branches. Massive in size, this intricate weave of stout sticks defied the onslaught of harsh winds and sweeping rain, for it was born of ancient design, of an inner knowing. And in all seasons an over-hang of curving rock afforded protection from above.

This pair of eagles had chosen well. High above the waves, yet open to the sea and sky, their nest had served them for seven breeding seasons. Each year they made it anew by adding to its upper tier and replacing the soft lining that cosseted the eggs. Three to guard with all their being, three to bring out of the hard shell and nurture until they were free to lift on the winds to hunt the dark valleys of the waves. Each year they succeeded in bringing all their offspring to flight.

Few could match the achievement of the eagles of the Lone Spruce of the Rampart. The stone and innate wisdom helped them and, in the gathering of the seasons, the hand of the human kind. The secret of their wondrous breeding was in the place chosen for the nest and the one who came to relieve them of the weakest chick.

In all those seasons no nest was lost to the ravages of the storm winds and only one intruder reached into its centre. He came each year in their time of greatest need when their ravenous young threatened to outstrip their ability to provide. Arriving from above, descending quietly out of the night with soothing words that were repeated again and again, he reached into the nest with guarded hands that accepted the sharp thrust of beak and raking claw without complaint. Suspended on a rope ladder, he gathered to himself the smallest chick, placed it in a soft pouch and returned quietly to the curving rock above. The smell of blood came with the visitor and remained when he was gone. Dawn always revealed food placed nearby, payment for the chick taken to be raised in the village at the centre of the bay.

Seven visits in seven years and after each the same cry to begin the new day. It came from the outskirts of the village. A demanding voice of distress that turned to satisfaction as hunger was met with fresh fish given by caring hands. Sadness then for the loss and joy many moons later when the missing one, now grown tall and strong, was set free to join them on the wing. Yet, when the parents returned to their roost, that former child of their nest and the others taken in earlier years always flew back to the village, not the lone tree upon the wide ledge. There was beauty in that too. Once committed to flight and alert to the hunt, the young ones were complete unto themselves. Free to stay or leave, to hunt the family range or fly the realms of another. Such was the way of the sea eagles.

Summer gave way to the crispness of early autumn. All aligned for a graceful movement into the whiteness of winter, then, as the Moon came to its fullness, everything began to shift in ways both mysterious and dire. Yet, only those fully versed in the old lore heard those subtle changes in the music of the land.

The warnings began in the time of the salmon run, the wonderful bright days when the Sun stands tall to warm the land and reveal waters filled with life. With a knowing inherited over forgotten generations all the creatures of the bay moved with the rhythms of Creation. A gentle warmth on the wind said it was time to prepare the nest, a sharp edge called them home from the outer waters to the shelter of the rock when the storm clouds stirred. Bright rings around the Moon announced a time of bounty. They said open your mouth wide for food is plentiful. Even the stars sent their messages. Yet the song of foreboding the old ones heard was not sent by the wind, the waters, the sky or the stars. It was a voice from deep within the tides and it reached the birds and the people.

Watch the tides, they will tell of what is coming from within the skies and within the Earth.

Thus spoke the old ones of Tana, the ancient village of this family of the Hai-da Nation. Be assured the stars moved, the waters heaved, the winds carried the sound of thunder, but all that was much later. The first warnings, the ones born of the sacred knowledge, came without the aid of sound or sight. They were of the tides, a cry of danger welling up from a source beyond the dimensions that fill the ordinary day. This was of other realms and it said the very core of the earth is in turmoil and shapes to toss all into disarray. That was how the two sea eagles knew, why they were both at the nest, why they sent a long piercing call to warn the village before the first earthquake felled trees atop the Rampart and savagely shook the stout houses below.

Calm soon returned, but only to the land. The Circle of Keepers of the Hai-da Nation met in the long Lodge to listen to the spirit walkers and the old ones who guided them when the Mother spoke of the pain within. Those who knew the wisdom of the inner earth were few, but of high standing. When they rose to speak, their quiet words filled each mind with warning. None doubted the challenge awaiting the world they knew and none turned aside in fear. All understood that when one trail closed another opened.

Kun-Kwii-aan, named for the Big Whale, the one who breaks the surface of the ocean with power because he rises out of the deep, stood to open the way. He was the Father of the Circle, which was the inner council of the people. Taking eagle wing feathers in one hand and a smouldering swatch of hemlock needles in the other, he walked the Circle to cleanse all. Then he began his prayer of greeting to the four directions and the above and below. Words gifted for this moment carried his life's breath to join with the whisper of the Mother and the keening winds that gave voice to the Sky Father.

The old one’s words were first sent to the west, the place of power where the thunder beings dwell. There he acknowledged the wonder of the totem animal of that realm, the bear. Then, with a vision of his mother touching into his mind, he honoured women and the healing of body, mind and spirit. Before leaving that direction, he remembered bravery is born of the last rays of the setting Sun. That gave him the courage to continue.

His next prayer was given to the north, the realm of sustenance, purity and cleansing, and the place where the people remember children. Endurance is the virtue of the north. There he found the will to stand tall at this time.

The cry of the eagle brought him to the east, for it is the winged totem of that wondrous world where the elders are honoured. Gifting, sharing the knowledge and the way, is the essence of the place where the Sun rises to bring all into the line of life.

The south called next, the sphere of truth and love where we are challenged to walk the good red trail. Wisdom is the power of the south, for there we remember all who have crossed over to the land of many lodges.

Gazing intently down, he shed tears for the sorrow of their passing and the joy of life, tears for the beauty of the Creator and the nurture of the Mother. Then he let his eyes follow the smoke of the fire aloft and his mind and spirit travel the long trail that reached out to the stars. Silence now. He was done.

Kun-kwii-aan's words were precious to his people. They were of the power and wondrous to behold. Some were so beautiful they were gifted into a special box fashioned from red cedar bark and held within it, bound into that space with plaited cords, until an important occasion called them forth again. Yet, the words of greatest power were held by women, for they were of the seed tides that are eternal. When the Circle of the Nation gathered every word was chosen with care. Thus did the Hai-da honour the sounds that are sacred.

He sat in the stillness, chin touching his chest and his face in shadow. The fire played across his long, silver-grey hair and ran along the curve of the four feathers bound into the coloured band that surrounded all. When he lifted his head and opened his face to greet his people, he was marked in every way as their chief, their guide on the trails of life, the Big Whale.

Silence honoured this fair-skinned one with the startling blue eyes. Respect, born of achievement and courage, sat comfortably on a face both calm and wise and gently aged by long days in the open. The talking stick now rested across his knees. He spoke so quietly his voice took on the sighing tones of the wind, and while the words were of him they echoed off ancient halls of time to gift lore seldom shared at this fire.

'We do not fear the shifting lands, the earthquake or the cleaving flame that opens the Mother to the birthing of the fire mountain. Out of smoke and rock thrown high emerges a tall standing one, a new peak to honour the rising Sun and give comfort to the Moon Maiden. And those who work the gardens know ash provides rich black soils that bring the best harvest.

'All know the mountains will, in the season of their choosing, vent fire and burn the forest. All understand that, for we speak of nothing new when we say an earthquake comes. Our people have long endured the travail of the Mother and shared the pain of the birthing. But never in living memory have we experienced what is soon to visit our island home. What gathers is different.'

Silence built around the fire. Its crackling flames sounded like the sharp cries of a whip. Anticipation, excitement, a sense of danger and of huge tides shifting spoke to all.

'A tall White Bear came to me in a dream, the one named Xuuts Hada Iiwants. He was of the mystery and walked a sacred path. He cried into the Long Night Without End, a darkness so deep no mind could reach its inner realms and no light probe its beginnings. Huge was this keeper of the snows and shifting ice, immense and powerful, yet filled with deep sadness and pain. Standing before a brave young woman, he spoke of the anguish of his Nation, pleaded for the healing of the Mother and asked if there might be a future for his children. And beside him rose a white pinnacle of rock, a marker in a land where all was white, and beside it stood a twin tower of black stone that shone with a gentle light.

'In a distant land a people have turned to ways that break the Creator's Covenant. Life is taken without asking - human life, the blood of the Nations. Force, both brutal and cold, stalks the land to gather everyone into its net. Women and children, the old ones, youths approaching the rites of the turning, the frail, and those who walk tall. None can stand against this dark tide, for it moves with numbers and weapons that deny challenge.

'Those taken are shackled by violence and cruelly sacrificed on altars of stone to enhance the power of those who defy the lore. I weep for all who walk that trail. Each sweep of the blade inflicts two wounds - one on the innocent held against the cold stone, and one on the hand that wields the sharp-edged knife. All done within the realms of stone. The altar defiled with the blood of our own kind, and the obsidian blade born of fire, smeared with the last drops of life. The agreement joined in the stars broken.'

The old one paused and took up the sacred smudge again to hold it aloft. Silence filled the Lodge and with it the drifting fragrance of the smoke, the gift of the Mother. Sometimes Kun-kwii-aan would sit thus throughout the day and none would urge him on, yet within moments he returned to them. Urgency bound all. He spoke once more.

'The stars weep with me, the Mother sheds tears of anguish for her wayward children as the strands of life are severed by this blood.

‘When we journey within the balance, death visits to honour the walker and to seed renewal. It is but the next step on the long trail up the mountain, another place to stand to greet the Sun and bathe in the light of the circle of the Moon. That is the path back to the stars, the homecoming.'

Again he paused. Then, with a subtle sign, Kun-kwii-aan called for the fire to be stirred to greater brightness. Without knowing they had allowed it to dim until all was covered by the growing darkness. Realisation followed as bright flames danced to throw shadows along the walls. Ts'aanuu is the name of Fire. Ts'aanuu heals, gives power to the spirit, sustains and brings all into harmony. Fire is the pathway to the skies, the doorway to the ancestors and many lands beyond the horizon. In the courage of Fire the old one continued.

'Those who walk the trails of evil to wrench the pulsing heart from its inner chamber defile all life. They sow anger and hate in sour soil to prepare a terrible harvest. The pain they send so deep touches all - the eagles of the Rampart, the whales of the wide oceans and the White Bear that weeps within the Longest Night.

'Others have flown their minds to bring this understanding to us. I rest now and place the power with another. Let us open our hearts to the cry of the Mother and the tears of the Father. May we think of the travail of the White Bear of my dreams. May we look to our guardians high upon the Rampart. May we walk the wisdom of the Circle that is without beginning or end. May we honour the Silence and the Source. So be it and may it forever be so.'

Men and women stirred, some quietly flexing their hands or moving their shoulders and lifting their heads higher as if to shrug aside a heavy cloak draped across their backs. The elders had carried the silent burden of this story for many seasons. Now it was shared and in the sharing it was changed. Soon words would be followed by action. And bound into that would be wisdom and deep understanding born of the Silence. That was the gift of the old ones - their power to walk the Silence.

Kun-kwii-aan sat as if turned to stone. All eyes settled on the old one, drawn to him by his stillness, embraced by his words and his presence. When he moved it was to send a silent signal to a young woman who sat beyond the Inner Circle. She was Hltanu, named for the Feather on the Wind. A ripple