Chapter 31

Saturday morning

Ben’s House

Harborton, Washington

Ben couldn’t understand it. As he was sitting at his end of the table finishing his morning coffee he pondered. Where did they put it all? None of these women could possibly weigh more than a buck twenty-five, soaking wet, with bricks in their pockets and yet they managed to put away more breakfast than an entire rugby team. And the noise they made! How on earth could they understand what anyone else was saying when they all talked with everyone on 10 different subjects all at once? Ben was completely fuddled. It didn’t help that any time one of them was close to him for a second he got a smooch and at least a snuggle, sometimes a grope. He didn’t know whether to be horny or sleepy and content. What Ben also didn’t know was that men with families like his had been having exactly the same thoughts for tens of thousands of years.

Ben’s reverie was interrupted by his front door bell ringing. What the hell? He wasn’t expecting anything. Ben was pretty sure that Chinese operators weren’t going to be ringing the doorbell but he wasn’t taking chances. Sarah had already anticipated what Ben was thinking and was halfway to the door.

“Hold up Sarah. One second.” Ben said as he stepped to the closet and retrieved his .45.

“Take the shotgun and watch the rear please. I’m not really worried. Tom, is out there patrolling but let’s just be cautious.”

Ben held the .45 hidden behind his leg and approached the front door while Sarah retrieved the shotgun and kept an eye on the backyard through the rear window. The other girls had fallen silent. Ben stood slightly to one side and cracked open the front door and was able to see the UPS guy climbing back in his van. There was an unusual looking long package on his front step.

Ben cautiously stepped outside and retrieved the large surprisingly light box from the step and carried it in. He gently laid it on the coffee table and started a careful examination. The first thing he noticed was that it was postmarked several days ago from Rocky Mountain, Oklahoma.

“I think we can relax. Girls do any of you get any ‘feelings’ about this?”

The girls all gathered around the coffee table.

‘I’m getting sort of a low hum, but nothing bad at all.” Said Sarah.

“Me too! Nothing that feels bad but there’s definitely something powerful here.” said Lizzy

“Yes, I agree. Something of power is in there, but I’m getting no feeling of darkness.” added Mei.

Kelly reached out and tentatively touched the package. Immediately she began hearing those same soft heartbeat/drum beats that had drawn her to Selu in her dream.

“Ben this has been blessed by your people for certain. I can feel it,” Kelly said reverently as her bracelets appeared, began glowing softly, then disappeared again.

“Alright, let’s see what we have here.” said Ben as he flicked open his pocket knife to open the cardboard.

As he removed the last layer of packing Ben knew exactly what he was looking at. It was a thing of simple beauty as well as of brutal utility. He had heard that his people still made these but had never seen one. It was a Cherokee war bow. The wood was a light golden yellow that glowed with its bear fat polish. The back was painted with intricate geometric patterns that almost seemed to shift as you looked at them. The simple handle was cord wrapped rattlesnake hide that felt as if it were still alive when Ben reached out to pick up the nearly six foot long bow.

Ben was not sensitive like his girls were but even he could feel the power. There was an aura of smoke and sage scents surrounding the bow as Ben bent to look at it more closely. This told Ben that the bow had likely been blessed in ceremony. Many people had gone to a great deal of trouble and weeks if not months of work to put this in their hands.

The girls were uncharacteristically silent as Ben stood looking closely at the bow. Most of the bows like this were made of a great bow wood that grew everywhere in Oklahoma called Osage Orange or Bois De Arc or simply Bowdark by locals. This one was different and used the more traditional Black Locust wood from the Cherokee people’s original home in the Carolinas, Kentucky, Tennessee and North Georgia. Someone had gone to great lengths to make this bow as close to traditional as could be done in modern times.

Bows nearly identical to this one had made pincushions out of De Soto’s armored men as they attempted to bull through Cherokee lands in North Carolina in 1540. During a truce where the Cherokee mingled with De Soto’s men, the hardened European troops commented that they couldn’t even draw one of the Cherokee bows to full length. This greatly amused the Cherokee and De Soto decided that negotiations might be a better way of passing through Cherokee lands henceforth.

Ben, reverently laid the bow down and removed another layer of wrapping to reveal an intricately painted deer skin quiver containing 15 arrows. Ben quickly realized that 10 arrows were for war and 5 were for practice. Although he could feel that each arrow weighed the same, the practice arrows were of river cane and tipped with long narrow spikes. The spikes were made for penetrating into handmade bales of corn husks.

The war arrows were very different. The wood looked to be traditional Dogwood shoots. A very dense, strong, wood often used for tools and utensils. The arrow heads he immediately noticed were not knapped out of the flint the Cherokee had commonly used though. The broad incredibly sharp arrowheads were iridescent black obsidian. As Ben examined one, rainbow patterns shifted back and forth across their surface in mesmerizing displays of color.

As Ben slid the arrow back into the quiver he noticed a letter sized envelope in the bottom of the box. The envelope was addressed in a neat feminine hand to ‘Captain Clarkson’. Ben smiled sadly as he remembered the last time that someone had addressed him by ‘Captain’. He then opened the envelope and began reading:

Ben sat quietly overcome, briefly carried back in time. Then he could feel warmth and love as multiple sets of arms surrounded him. His girls knew instinctively when he needed them. He handed the letter to Kelly for her to read to the others. When she finished no one had dry eyes, but there was a look of determination on every face. Ben could feel each of them behind him and them all linked together as a team.

Sarah was the first to break their impromptu huddle as she seemed to be drawn to the bow.

“Uh Ben, do you mind, can I pick it up?” The normally irreverent Sarah was deeply aware of the significance of what they had received.

“Oh, of course my love!” said Ben smiling

The instant that Sarah’s hand reached around the rattlesnake grip she knew that this was meant for her. Her pendant came to life with a brilliant hot glow that lit up Ben’s living room. Sarah could feel her mother’s voice say ‘now THIS is a weapon fit for you daughter!’

“Ben, I think that this one is meant for me.” Sarah said quietly.

As Sarah turned she saw all of her sisters and Ben staring at her open mouthed.

“Yep, I think you may be right Sarah!” Ben replied.

Saturday morning

Ferguson farm fields

Near Harborton, Washington

Ben and his all girl crew had all managed to crowd into his old Cherokee with all the weapons and gear needed for a training session in the back. He had called ahead to old man Ferguson to get permission to use one of his fields that they had set up for long range shooting.

Ben had run into Ferguson (Ferg to his friends) one early morning at the coffee shop a year or so ago and had recognized the old school ranger tattoo on the old man’s forearm. They had started telling war stories when Ben had discovered that Ferg’s hay baler was on the fritz. After a day of working on it together they managed to get the 40 year old baler functioning again and had discovered a common love for precision shooting. Ben hadn’t shot since Afghanistan but Ferg had persuaded him to break out his grandpa’s old M1 and send a few rounds down range with him in one of his fields. Since then they had set up a decent improvised long distance range. One of the old man’s alfalfa fields had a natural berm toward the National Forest side so they added a shooting shed and some benches, along with a few hay bales for a back stop, a range flag and some range markers and they were all set.

The old man shot a M1903 Springfield that was amazingly accurate. Ben’s M1 was good out to about 600 yards but was nowhere near as accurate as the Springfield. Of course the M1 Was also semi auto and not bolt action. They both shot with iron sights only to make it interesting and bet on who bought the beer. So far Ben was way behind the old man in the beer count.

The gray haired, whipcord lean man in ragged overalls was waiting for them at the open gate to the grassy field. Ben pulled up and rolled down his window.