﻿The Great Turtle and the White Bird A Short Tale By Daniel A. Smith Dedicated to: Shelley Taylor Smith - my beautiful, multi-talented daughter for all of the bedtime stories we shared. ~~~***~~~ Copyright © 2013 by Daniel A. Smith All rights reserved Smashwords Edition No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Daniel A. Smith. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. *** Once long ago, a vast flood covered all the land. The only survivors were ones who could swim the endless waters or fly above them. Those who had walked upon the land were no more. The flood pleased the creatures of the water, except for the Great Turtle. “I swim day and night. I am tired,” he said. “I wish for a small piece of earth where I could rest if only for a short while. “When my children come to me and ask, ‘Where can we rest?’ What will I say? The lands are gone and so are the ones who once walked upon them.” In the ancient times before the flood, the creatures of the world lived in harmony. The Great Turtle missed the oneness that all had shared. “What will happen to my children’s children?” He asked. A white bird flying high above the water heard the cries. She flew closer to hear the Great Turtle’s words. “There is no place to rest or lay the eggs of my children’s children,” he shouted. “Oh, Great Turtle,” the White Bird called down. “I have heard your words, and know them, well. I am also tired, tired from flying all day and night. I wish for a land where plants and trees grow. In all the endless skies above or in the endless waters below, I have found no place to build a nest and raise my young.” This made the Great Turtle even sadder. “We must do something for the children.” He asked those around him. “Who will help?” The creatures of the water all swam away saying, “We have no use for any land in our boundless seas.” Only the White Bird offered to help. “What can I do?” The Great Turtle thought a moment and then said, “I will swim to where the water is shallow and stand as tall as I can on my four strong legs. I will stretch until my shell reaches above the water. Then upon my back, my children’s children shall come to rest, and upon my back, you may build your nest.” “Oh, Great Turtle, if you can do that, I will do more than build my nest. I will fly as far as I can in all directions and return with every bit of dry earth I find. Together, we will make an island. On that island, the children of your children can gather to raise their children, and at the top, I will build a nest for my young.” The Great Turtle did as he said he would. He stood tall and strong so that others might have what he could never have. The White Bird did as she promised. She flew every direction, but the gathering was slow. As soon as she placed her newest find on the turtle’s back, she flew off in search of more, day and night, back and forth. She did not want to disappoint the Great Turtle who was giving so much. The exhausted bird flew so hard that soon other birds became curious. “Why are you flying so fast and so far?” they asked. When she explained her mission, each of the winged-ones asked if they could help. White Bird told them she must first seek permission from the Great Turtle. “Oh, White Bird, friend of my children’s children tell the other winged-ones to bring what they have.” The Great Turtle said without hesitation, “I will give them each a place to rest and raise their young.” The White Bird had already found most of the bits of earth, so the other birds brought grains of sand, shells and bones of sea creatures. The new land grew quickly. Some of these gifts were used in raising the land, and some in building a grand nest. It was large enough for the eggs of all the winged-ones. The land under the nest became a place for the children of the Great Turtle to deposit the eggs of their children. Many winged-ones were hatched and raised in the grand nest. When the young could fly, they would search for more gifts to place on the Great Turtle’s back. They brought seeds, twigs and bark found floating in the endless waters. These were scattered about the island, each becoming a new plant or tree. The island and everything on it grew. The nest grew so large that some bird’s eggs slipped down through it. So many of the Great Turtle’s children came to lay their eggs on the land under the nest that some turtle eggs were pushed up into the nest. In this way, the eggs became mixed. The bird eggs hatched under the nest became not turtles that could swim under the water nor birds that could fly above it. Instead, they hatched out as four-legged creatures who could walk only on the land that the White Bird, and the Great Turtle had created. The turtle eggs hatched by the birds became neither birds nor turtles. They hatched as two-legged creatures who could not fly above nor live under the water. These were the ancient people of the Great Turtle Island. They were pleased to live on such a beautiful land. The people honored and respected their scared gift from the Great Turtle. And as it should be, the two-legged and the four-legged creatures of the Great Turtle Island walked in harmony once again. This short tale is a companion story to Daniel A. Smith’s historical-literary novel Storykeeper available in paperback and e-book . Website - http://www.danielasmith.org Chapter 1 With every dream, she knew it was coming, but that made little difference this time. She ran as fast as she had ever run. The ground shook as the lumbering rage closed in. A low growl swelled to a thundering roar, echoing on all sides. Hot breath burned the back of her legs. She pushed herself harder. Jagged teeth tore across her heel. She pulled away, but only for a moment. Claws like knives sliced her shoulder and spun her around. One great swipe, and the giant beast ripped away her arm. Manaha shuddered awake. The sounds around her were all familiar: the hiss of a pitch pine fire, the soft song of others sleeping, and the call of night’s creatures outside the village-lodge. Wet with sweat, she threw back the bedcover and tried to sit up. Her left arm hung numb and offered no help. “Just the dream,” she said. Something stirred in the darkness. She held her breath, but heard nothing else. She had long ago grown accustomed to waking with stiffness. This was more; her arm would not move. Cradling it like a baby, she hobbled to the small fire in the center of the floor. Four others slept on the benches lining the circular walls. In better times they would have been important guests of the tribe. Now, like her, they were old and had no clan left. Watching the single flame flickering above the pine pitch, she suddenly realized how old—older than her grandfather when he first told her about the homeland and the arrival of the “strangers”. Manaha carefully surrounded the flame with a little kindling. It was summer, but she felt chilled. Most of her life she had dreamed of a brown bear chasing her. Sometimes she ran fast. Other times she could hardly move. Even so, the bear had never caught her—until that night. She massaged her shoulder and mumbled, “Could a dream take my arm?” Trying to remember, she repeated the dream over and over as if someone were listening, but whispered so no one would hear. As the first morning light slid through the only door, Manaha stood, crossed her arms, bad over good, and crept out. She hurried around the plaza, following a wide dusty path along the steep bank of the creek to the growing fields. On the far side, away from where others would be working later that morning, she sat down among the corn and tested her arm again. Nothing. Over the short stalks of corn, whiffs of smoke from the nine lodges of her small village rose to the brightening sky. She looked down at the useless limb lying in her lap. What will happen when they find out about my arm? All that day, she stayed to herself, hiding her arm, and struggling with the dream. She would prefer going unnoticed, but knew she had to tell the dream to her tribe. That evening, as usual, she gathered with others around the square-ground west of the plaza. In the warm months, the sunken clay-packed clearing enclosed by four open-front sheds served as the village council site, once a place of stories and words of wisdom. As it always had, a sacred fire burned in the center, but no one told stories anymore. Now, they gathered in silence to watch the flames consume wood like so many flickering memories. Manaha sat alone on the back bench of the south shed, the Blue Lodge. Because of last night’s dream, she looked upon the people of her tribe differently. She grieved for what had been lost and the common face of despair that remained. They were all as one creature with downcast eyes, weathered skin, and sharp features sharing the same thoughts in silence. A silence invaded only by the fire’s crackle and the innocence of children playing in the darkness. Not blood of these people, Manaha had lived with them as a captive, servant, wife, and now a widow. One of the last tribes of survivors from the scattered, ancient nations of the Nine-Rivers; they called themselves simply “Hachia”. Their great-great-grandfathers were people of the rivers, powerful and strong until the strangers came out of the east. Now the ragged tribe hid among the foothills in the Mountains of the Ozarks on upper Long Creek. They tried to escape the curse of plagues and senseless wars the Son of the Sun and his army had brought into their homeland. Ten summers had passed in peace on the isolated creek bank. Still, the dying continued. Sickness took the young; hunger and heartache claimed the old. Manaha glanced around the square-ground, pausing at each empty place in the broken circle. The names of those missing she could remember. But lost forever were their faces except for that of her husband’s. She gathered her courage and stepped from under the thick thatched roof. No one seemed to notice. Seasons of wearing a scarf to cover her scars had forced the hair rimming her high forehead up into a plume of black with streaks of white. She pulled the woven scarf even tighter and marched to the center of the grounds with her arms hanging at her side as if both were the same. Once inside the fire-circle, she spoke, “I, Manaha, mother of none, who faithfully walked beside my husband, the wise and respected Wakaw, wish to speak to the village.” Curiosity spread over the previously blank faces as each stare turned to her. She did not wait for a reply, “I must speak of a dream which has come to me.” To the north, voices of protest from the Red Lodge clambered above the murmurs of general disapproval. Ta-kawa of the Cougar clan, the best hunter of the village, shouted the loudest. “Go back to your place, woman. You have no right to speak before the village fire.” “I must tell my dream,” she said. “No. You cannot speak here.” Ta-kawa stood tall and proud of his scars; all won in battle. The tribe’s hunters cut their hair on one side, the side to which they pulled their bowstring. But Ta-kawa shaved both sides and dyed the center red. “It is not our way to speak of such things,” he said, his long breechcloth swaying side to side. “Tell your dream, as you should, to an elder who can give you proper counsel.” She shook her head. “There is no longer a Wise-One among us. I must tell—” “Say no more lest you defile the sacred flame.” Ta-kawa stepped into the fire-circle. His shaved head gleamed in the firelight. “Do as I command,” he said, then leaned over Manaha and yelled, “Leave the circle!” Manaha stood rigid. “Warrior, hold your tongue!” commanded Hazaar. The honored elder slowly rose from his position at the center of the White Lodge. His sad eyes, set deep in the taut, weathered face, drifted from lodge to lodge. “What Manaha has said is true. I am the oldest of the Elders and carry the wisdom and weight of many seasons, but my sight into other worlds has grown dark, blinded by the madness I have seen.” “Your vision grows dim?” Ta-kawa questioned. “I say it is your courage that is weak.” Hazaar returned Ta-kawa’s glare with the same might. “She will tell her dream,” he said. “If it has meaning, it will be for each listener to regard or cast away on their own.” The three stood in a lingering silence until Ta-kawa turned toward the warriors of the Red Lodge and pointed west. “The words of the White Council are honored in times of peace as it has been and should be. But in time, war will come,” he marched around the fire, “then the words of warriors will rule. I, with the men of the Red Lodge, will lead our people with courage.” Circling back to Hazaar, Ta-kawa nodded, then grumbled. “As you say, Elder, she must tell her dream.” He strutted back to the Red Lodge. Cheers and whoops greeted him as if he had won another battle. After both men sat down, Manaha breathed deep and spoke out in a strong voice. ### danielasmith.org