Dawn Rising

Book One Dawn Rising

Lucien and Alex's Story.

*

Live your life that the fear of death

can never enter your heart

Trouble no one about his religion...

Respect others in their views

and demand that they Respect yours...

Love your Life, Perfect your Life...

Beautify All things in your Life...

Seek to make your life long

and of service to your people...

Prepare a noble death song for the day

When you go over the great divide..

Always give a word or sign of salute when meeting

or passing a friend, or even a stranger, if in a lonely place

Show respect to all people, but grovel to no one...

When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light,

for your Life, for your Strength

Give Thanks for your Food and for the joy of Living...

If you see no reason to give thanks...

The Fault Lies in........Yourself.

Shawnee Warrior Tecumseh

Preface

The autumn sun hung just barely beneath the treetops along the banks of the river. The battle was a bloody one. Hazy smoke from musket and cannon fire hung heavily in the air. Abandoned by British soldiers, nearly five hundred Native American warriors scrambled through the swamps in an attempt to hold off the progressing assault of uniformed foot soldiers.

The warrior's heart was heavy with worry. Secretly, he had composed his death song in his mind. It was a good song, worthy of a warrior. He instructed his brothers to scatter out deeper into the surrounding cover of the forest. Many of his mighty warriors had fallen, weakened by near starvation and exposure. Those that were left were weary from battle and the death that surrounded them.

Tomahawk lifted high. He dove in to the melee. His shrill battle cry pierced the quiet of the crisp, fall dawn. He had never trusted the British, "Fat animals with their tails drooped between their legs," he hissed, as he bravely pushed to the center of the fighting. His instincts were right. The British betrayed them. In the thick of the battle, they had deserted.

His leggings were saturated with mud and stained with the blood of the Shemannese, the white men that pursued him. He hoped that he would grow old, fat, and happy, lounging beside a warm blazing campfire in the autumn of his life. But, instead he would know nothing but war all of his days. He had been training for it since he was a boy. And now a man, he was a skillful warrior and the leader of his people.

He wiped the blood of his enemy off his face as his tomahawk found its mark deep in enemy flesh. There was no time to bask in this small victory of one fallen enemy. He dodged enemy musket fire. His mission was to hold the line and to prevent the Shemanese from advancing.

The wars between the whites and his brothers had been longstanding. His people were being forced further and further west and were becoming fewer and fewer under the fire from the white man's guns. He had to try to get the tribes to unite if this war was going to be stopped, if he and his brother warriors were going to survive the bleak winter to come.

The air around him shook as musket fire reverberated. He felt his flesh give way under the searing pain of gunfire. The lead ball burrowed deep into his belly. His blood leaked, soaking through his leathers. Gasping in agony, he pressed his hand hard against his stomach and panted against the fire spreading through his flesh. In his mind, the vision of his death, the death foretold by his brother echoed in his mind. At the time, when his brother told him about his grim vision, he didn't think much about it.

The fallen orange and brown of the leaves beneath him turned a slick, crimson red. Stained by a river of blood. Taking a deep breath, he began to chant his death song. In the crisp coolness of the fall morning with the tone of his bass voice to the words, he was right. It was a good song. Tomahawk clutched tightly in his fist, he prayed that death would find him before his adversaries did.

"Our brother has fallen!" a warrior cried out. Haphazardly dodging gunfire and the flash of steel, he rushed to his brother's side. The warrior had joined the rag tag band of warriors as a young man, just barely past his trials. Pledged his loyalty and proven his bravery on the field, earning the coveted position of, Psai-wi ne-noth-tu- Great Warrior. The Great One hand selected those he thought worthy of the title. They were his most trusted men and closest companions. Now, the Great One lay dying on blood stained ground.

"My brother," the Great One said, his voice weak and barely audible over the cries of the fighting that surrounded them. "It is just as my brother described vision. I am going to die"

The warrior surveyed the wounds. Heated tears of anger and despair welled in the corners of his eyes. The wounds were mortal, deep and jagged, a red torrent of blood flowed freely from the deep hole in the Great One's side. Gently, as if he held an infant, he scooped his brother's head into his arms, searching the barrage of warriors and soldiers for more of his Psai-wi ne-noth-tu Brothers. A warrior from across the fray of bodies caught his gaze.

"We have to get him to The Great Prophet quickly. He has good medicine. He will make this right," the warrior said to his brother. There was no optimism in the words he spoke. But, he wasn't ready to see his brother, his friend, the only hope for his people, cross the Great River. Not yet. As carefully as possible, the two warriors lifted the Great One's body, straining under the awkwardness of his bulk.

The Great One bit his lower lip as his trusted brother warriors carried him through the trees and deeper into the swamps. His vision swam, narrowing down into a single beam of light. The sounds of the fighting grew dim as the warriors wound their way around thick underbrush, dodging gunfire and dropping a few enemy soldiers along the way.

Miles away from the battle they approached the horses. He felt his body lifted by gentle hands. His brothers grunted from the strain of carrying him so far and hefting his weight as gently as they could onto the horse's back. A warrior slid on behind him clutching him with muscular arms, as carefully as he could without causing more pain. "Go help our brothers," he directed his warrior brother. The two warriors locked their gazes, unsure if they would ever reunite in this life again.

At a fast trot the two headed south to the Prophet's camp. The Great One felt the horse's hooves as they struck the ground. The rocking and swaying of the mount jarred his body, sending wave after wave of agony through his flesh till he could take no more and gave into the pain. Everything grew dark and silent around him.

An old woman surrounded by a haze of white light approached him. "Kokumthena," he whispered in reverence as she reached out her bronze gnarled fingers to touch his face.

The warrior spurred the horse on, quickening its gait. Time was short. The Great One was fading away, drifting to the realm of spirits. "Don't you dare cross the River. Stay with me my brother." He shook the broken body in his arms, as he spoke. In the distance, he saw the smoke rising from the campfire.

The Prophet paced nervously as he awaited news from the battle. He warned his brother not to ally his people with the British and not to rush into this battle. But, eager to take advantage of any aid that was to be offered, his brother had forged the alliance and gone to battle despite the warnings. Remembering his vision, the prophet waited for his brother's lifeless body to be brought to the camp. Wondering, if today was as good of a day to die as his brother hoped it would be.

The Prophet remembered his first vision. He had been young, rash, and full of fire. Before that time, his name had been Lalawethika. But, afterwards, after glimpsing into Kokumthena's eyes and seeing paradise in their depths, not only his name, but his whole life had been forever changed. Now, after having many visions, not all of them happy ones, such as the one playing out in reality before his eyes. He was named, The Prophet... the Open Door.

In his mind he recalled the vision. Kokumthena had placed her hands over his ears and lowered her lips to his, breathing into his mouth. He would never forget her words. "I have seen the suffering of my children and have heard their cries. The evil that threatens all humankind must be stopped. Your brother will lead my most precious sons and you will be my voice, my heart."

Many visions followed, all foretelling this event. He looked through the stark tree trunks, leaping to his feet at the sight of the warrior's approach. His brother's limp body dangled across the horse's back. "It is time," he whispered. His arms and his face cast skyward, he called to the goddess.

The Great One struggled to open his eyes at the urging of a musical feminine voice. The voice was filled with such beauty that he shuddered at the sound. He felt the magic course through his body at her touch as the soft, tiny, hands gently lifted his head. "My child," the voice commanded, "drink and rise my Great Warrior, Father of my most precious sons. Drink."

He thought, surely he must be dead. Certain the wounds must be fatal. Yet, he felt the gentle touch of the woman's hands and the sweet music of her voice. Paradise, yes that was it. He was dead and in paradise, neither touch nor sound belonged to this earth. Her flesh brushed against his lips, leaving a damp trail. Timidly, he licked at the moisture. Eagerly, he opened his mouth for more, gulping greedy mouthfuls at the wrist that was offered. He never dreamed the water of the river would be so sweet. No taste such as the one that lingered on his tongue was of this earth.

The Great One gasped as the first chilling waves of agony wracked his body. He wasn't in paradise, but in the torments of hell. He cried out as his body writhed in sheer torture. Pain ripped it's way along his limbs. The woman's musical voice flooded his mind. Her hands ran along the strands of his hair. Her voice soothed him, easing his suffering.

After seemingly eternity, his body stilled and the pain subsided. He heard the whisper of the wind as it sighed through the trees and the rustle of dry autumn leaves roar in his ears. He smelled the very essence of humanity, swirling on the air around him. Hesitantly, he forced his eyes to open. He looked up into the brilliant depths of Kokumthena's eyes. Saw the universe held within them and suddenly, he understood everything.

Kokumthena smiled down at the warrior cradled his in her lap. "Rise warrior," she said softly pushing him up. "Father my sons, create a great race to guard all humanity. Choose your children carefully; select those who are pure of heart and sound of body and mind, those willing to join in our quest. Never take the lives you fight to save. Drink of the gifts from the Great Spirits of the woods."

The Great Father stood on shaky legs. New sensations raced through his body and his mind as he looked around. His mission was clear. He dropped to one knee, bowing low to Kokumthena pledging to his destiny to her. Her image faded, dissolving into the surrounding woods. "From this day on you will be known as Panther Passing Across for you will protect my lands as the panther protects his. History and all humanity will know you by this name. This is my gift to you. Arise and lead your people."

The Great Father's body shook with newly found hunger. Teased by the scent of the blood of his brother and his most trusted of men. "Will you join me my brothers? Will you be my Sons?"

Chapter 1

Alex awoke with a start, trembling and gasping for breath. Her eyes darted wildly around the darkened room. With a relieved sigh, she exhaled, taking in the familiar surroundings of her bedroom. The present... not the past, which she relived in vivid detail every time she closed her eyes. The bright cheerful paint, normally a sunny yellow brilliant as the daytime sun, was gray, dim and dull in the pale whisper of early morning light. The matching comforter and curtain ensemble, the fabric soft, the print a smattering of flowers, homey things that reminded her there was no reason to be afraid. She was safe in her bed.

The nightmares were always bad. Always affected her like this. She would wake up terrified, gasping, and choking on her screams. Sometimes, so frightening that her mantra of safety, even the familiar things around her, weren't enough to squash the horror. And she'd have to resort to taking one of the little pills out of the bottle stashed away in her nightstand. The pills infused her with a sense of false calm and artificial complacency. And they left her groggy as hell. Detached, as if she were watching the day play out instead of living it. She hated them almost as badly as she did the dreams.

Shaking her head to clear the remnants of the dream and her sleep dazed mind, groaning from fatigue, she swung her feet over the side of the bed. "My God Alex, get a grip." Determined not to reach for the pills, she dragged a trembling hand through the sweat-dampened tangles of her hair. The digital display on her alarm clock glowed a cheerful red, blurry through her sleep-fogged vision.

The alarm wasn't supposed to go off for another two hours. Reluctant to slip into the nightmare again, and she would if she fell back to sleep without the pills to send her mind to its happy place. She forced her weary, aching body to shuffle into the kitchen of the matchbox sized apartment she called home. Fumbling in the dark, she felt for the light switch. Light made everything better, chased away the shadow of the nightmare stubbornly replaying over and over in her mind. Coffee, coffee made everything better too, she thought, feeling along the slick smooth surface of her coffee maker for the on button.

While she waited for the rich dark brew to dribble into the carafe, she made her way into the bathroom, anxious for a hot steamy shower to ease her tense muscles. Blinking against the garish white light, still sleepy from the early hour, she met the brown eyes that stared back at her from the mirror's reflection. Eyes dulled from the burden of seeing too much too soon in life and the uncontrollable nightmares that followed night after night. She ran her fingers through the fine strands of her long auburn hair, letting it fall back into place along the small of her back. The silver chain, as much a part of her as her flesh and blood, was pulled taught against her throat. Carefully, not to break the chain, unwinding it from an unruly tangle of silver and knots of hair, she slid the dainty heart shaped locket back into place at the hollow of her throat.

Wearily, she stared into the mirror. Her sleeping habits were not conducive to looking her best. Even the dusting of brown freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks looked pale. If only, she could say the same about the dark purple half moons under her eyes that indicated her insomnia. They were more pronounced than ever.

At almost thirty and single, without any real prospects for a relationship, she needed some reassurances about her attractiveness to the opposite sex. The thought was trite compared to the nightmare. But, the fleeting need for self-esteem was a welcome distraction from the horror of her recurrent dream.

Her eyes trailed down her body's reflection in the mirror. Rumpled, baggy sleep shorts and an old, faded t-shirt that she'd swiped from her dad didn't help her figure much. She didn't work out as often as she should. Due to her constant fear of falling asleep and the nightmares that rode in on the wings of her dreams, insomnia plagued her. And by the end of the day she was too exhausted to even think about visiting the complementary gym in the bowels of her apartment building. She had a car, but the endless stream of traffic through the heart of the city made driving anywhere almost impossible. Walking kept her fit. Too curvy in places, but she had a reasonably decent shape. "You still got it babe."

Sighing, she eased aching body into the relaxing refuge of heat and steam, allowing the water to wind rivulets down the length of her body. Fumbling along the ledge of the shower wall, she grasped her soap and lathered up. The heady scent of lavender combined with the sweet, sugary smell of vanilla helped to calm her frazzled nerves. Her fingers ran along the uneven puckering lines of jagged, bright pink scar tissue down the length of her right leg. With a hard swallow, she pushed back memories of the pain that had created them.

The rich aroma of coffee wafted in under the bathroom door, coaxing her out of the refuge of the tub. Gently, she towel dried her right leg and traced the patterns of the ivy and wildflower tattoos that wound around the scars. They did a poor job of camouflaging the damaged tissues. But, the design was prettier than the scars, like beautiful blossoms wound through barbed wire. She liked to think that the scar/tattoo combination as a badge of courage. Something that said, "Hey, look at me. I'm a survivor."

Today, the weather would be bad. A storm was coming. The familiar aching and throbbing of her long ago damaged limb, titanium hardware fused into bone, was never wrong. Alex stepped out on the balcony shivering against the cold April morning. Her mug of coffee sent tendrils of steam into the chilly, gray morning. Her robe and slippers were thick and soft, but not heavy enough for the brisk, almost spring air. Tiptoeing to the edge of the frost covered railing; she peered down. The city below sleepily greeted her with the first breathy sighs of another busy day. The warmth of the sun nor it's golden light could permeate the thick layer of steely clouds looming overhead. But, Alex loved this time of day, better when the horizon glowed with shades of pink and gold though, instead of the gray haze of oncoming snow showers and ice.

She thought about her parents, they would just now be lazily opening their eyes. Waking up. Spring had technically arrived to this part of the country. They would be busily planning the Spring Planting Festival. In a couple of weeks she would be dusting off her beat up Honda and making the three- hour drive home. Vacation time booked, Alex was eagerly looking forward to returning home for a brief hiatus from the bustling city below.

The back-up horn of a trash truck echoed through the empty streets, reverberating off the concrete walls of the canyon of high-rise buildings. No time this morning for screwing off and losing herself in her musings as she was prone to do. Shivering against the chill, she went back inside, closing the sliding balcony door tightly behind her. She didn't worry about locking the door. If some nut-job had the tenacity to scale the wall to the third story and sneak inside her apartment, more power to them. It wasn't like she owned much anyway. Hell, they'd probably feel sorry for her lack of belongings, most of them pilfered from her parents, and leave her something.

The nagging throb of her leg was not going to give her a break today. Limping through the pain, she hobbled into her bedroom and selected her clothing for the day. She had pain pills too. But, they made her almost as loopy as the pills in her nightstand. Not today. She saw giving in and taking pills as a sign of weakness. The tattoos on her leg reminded her that she was anything but weak.

Her mother always said that a messy bed was a sign of a messy mind. Maybe, her mom was right and Alex simply needed to get her shit together. She scowled at the disheveled covers on the bed, giving them a hurried smoothing. As she ran her hands over the plush velvety coverlet pulling the wrinkles out, she wished smoothing out her harried mind was just as simple of a task as making the bed.