April 1776

From atop Nundawao (Sacred Mountain), torrential rain obscured Otetiani's midnight view of the nine, bark-covered, communal, longhouses and other tribal structures along the shore of Canandaigua Lake. Kneeling beside the majestic basswood tree that had served for countless generations as the Tree of Peace That Pierced the Sky, the twenty-two year old Indian prayed aloud that the Great Spirit embrace the imminent arrival of his dying father, Tagashata, Chief of the Seneca tribe.

Oblivious to the fast-growing storm that began raging around him since he'd arrived, Otetiani pondered the weighty responsibility that would soon be his as the new tribal chief. He yearned that his father's success in dealing with myriad adversities would be a smooth transition from his soon-to-be lifeless, earthly, body to his own. Chief Tagashata had led the Seneca tribe and others in the Iroquois Confederation through decades of war and peace, and saved them from planned annihilation by varied encroaching and warring factions.

Winds whipped through the trees and lifted Otetiani's shouted chants into the ether, where he knew with absolute certainty the Great Spirit was listening. Deafening claps of thunder resounded, followed by jagged, horizon-filling, cobwebs of lightning, that turned the night sky into shadowy dusk.

A sudden queue of flashing bolts struck the ground in tandem. Branches from nearby trees crashed to the ground. Another queue followed. Otetiani felt searing heat beside his face and heard the sharp crackle of a lightning bolt. The massive tree trunk trembled and moved away from his body, as a sustained, screeching, sound of ripping wood occurred, accompanied by a shrill, human-like, moan. He threw himself flat onto the ground and turned his head to face the tree. Twenty feet of its length and half of its width had been torn from its side. Splintery shards remained in their place. The once-magnificent tree teetered for a long moment, as more of its girth fell away. Suddenly, like a snapping twig, it broke free from its mortally-wounded underpinning, and ignominiously crashed through smaller trees on its downward death spiral to the ground.

Otetiani lay still as debris and broken foliage fell about him. He dared not move. Through rain-soaked eyes, he squinted at a glowing sphere rolling tantalizingly toward him from the jagged stump, then stop inches from his face. No bigger than an plum, its colors pulsated and metamorphosed between jade blue and gleaming amber. He stared. It remained in place. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched it with a single finger, quickly withdrew his hand, considered for a brief moment, touched it again with two fingers, then three, lingered a bit longer to feel its coolness, withdrew them, took a deep breath, then grasped the object with both hands, and held it close to his face, while still lying flat on the ground.

Carved from blue pipestone, its exterior was smooth, with indiscernible painted designs, and somewhat oval-shaped. Its bottom was virtually flat. Two grooved lines encircled it. As he turned it upside down, a compressed ball of decayed vegetation fell out, exposing a bowl-like indentation that rendered it hollow. The pulsating did not stop. A pea-sized hole penetrated it from one side. Otetiani used a twig to clear it out, and scrape crusted debris from inside the bowl.

The thunderstorm ceased, but drenching rain persisted. The soon-to-be new Seneca tribal chief stood up finally, held the glowing object high over his head, and chanted a prayer of thanks and adoration to the Great Spirit. Perhaps, he thought, this treasure was the long-lost, enchanted pipe bowl that he'd heard stories about. Could it have been hidden in the Tree of Peace by an ancient chieftain ancestor for safekeeping, awaiting for this moment of discovery?

* * *

One hour later

Humidity inside the communal longhouse was enhanced by torches and candles to provide light. Each of several family clans that occupied the structure huddled together in their own living spaces, chanting prayers to the Great Spirit for the eternal soul of their ailing leader. Other sounds emanated from bawling babies.

In his own family's living space at the East end of the building, Chief Tagashata lay dying atop a blanket that had been spread over a straw mat on the dirt floor. Seated beside him were his wife, Ahweyneyonh (Drooping Flower), and son, Otetiani, who'd just returned from Nundawao with his find, wrapped inside a garment. He quietly related his recent experience to her. All others remained at a discreet distance, including his wife, Aanjedek, his children, and the medicine man, at Otetiani's command. He knew that vigils were ongoing inside all the dwellings beside the shore of Lake Canandaigua. Drooping Flower lowered her head to within inches of Tagashata, wiped his brow with her hand, and waited until he opened his eyes.

"My time with you will soon be over," he whispered.

She sobbed in reply. He moved his hand to hers and held it.

"You have prepared Otetiani well," he said.

"He wishes to share with you a sublime experience," she replied.

Tagashata nodded, then turned his gaze on his son.

"The Great Spirit spoke to me tonight," Otetiani whispered. "He felled the Tree of Peace on Nundawao, as I prayed alone to Him under its boughs. The Great Spirit presented me with this ... from the broken trunk."

He withdrew the pulsating pipe bowl from the garment, and held it close to his father's face. Tagashata gazed at it for a long moment, smiled, and placed his hands around his son's in a gesture of acknowledgment, comfort, and privacy, then quietly uttered the single word, "hide."

"No other eyes must see this, my son," Drooping Flower whispered.

Otetiani obeyed and wrapped the garment around it. Tagashata took on a serene expression, and closed his eyes. Drooping Flower wiped his brow and took hold of his hand. He squeezed hers tenderly. For several minutes no words were spoken. Chanting filled the air.

Tagashata stirred and mumbled faintly. Drooping Flower placed her ear close to his mouth, nodding from time-to-time, while she caressed his face and listened. Several minutes elapsed. Otetiani waited patiently, even during lengthy lapses. Drooping Flower signaled for him to move closer to hear her relate Tagashata's counsel. Hers was a soft, hushed, voice.

"You possess the long-lost enchanted pipe bowl that has been sought by generations of our people," she whispered. "Through it the Great Spirit imparts wisdom. Fit it with a suitable pipe stem. Fill it with common tobacco. Smoke it with no others in your own spiritual place, before you make important decisions. The Iroquois Confederation's future will be dependent on your wise use of it. There will be no room for disbelief. Great Spirit knows all."

Tagashata opened his eyes and tugged weakly on Drooping Flower's arm. She leant over him again, placed her ear close to his mouth, and nodded as before, while he spoke. Minutes passed during his halting recitation.

Motioning again for Otetiani to come close, she relayed his counsel.

"Your father is well-pleased with my description of his words, my son," she whispered. "There is more. You alone must possess the pipe bowl. Its very existence must be kept secret from tribal members, palefaces, other tribes. Chief Cornplanter, Chief Thayendanagea, and Chief Sayenqueraghtha do not consider...