Among the Cherokee, as among all the Iroquoian-speaking Indians of the Eastern US, the tradition of the "blood feud" often created many problems; the fame of the well-known Hiawatha rests on having stopped this among the Iroquoans of the North. According to this tradition, if someone killed someone blood-related to you, you were honor-bound to kill him or one of his blood relatives, in which case he'd now be obligated to kill you, and so on to extinction of one of the families.
This story is recorded from 16th Century North Carolina. Evidently one of the sons of a noted warrior named Tall Elk got drunk and killed a member of another major family during an argument. To prevent the blood feud, Tall Elk' and his family determined that one of his daughters should be offered to the other family as an atonement, and this was done. History does not record the girl's name or how she died, only that this was done with the girl's consent.
Answering the soft tap at his door of his small cabin, Yellow Wolf could only stare, astounded. Outside stood Tall Elk, his old friend; or rather, his former friend, now his sworn enemy, now the man he was duty-bound to kill on sight.
Tall Elk knew all this very well; he did not seem to be armed, and he held his hands out, weaponless, evidently so that Yellow Wolf would understand that this was not an attack.
He was not, however, quite alone. At his side stood his eldest daughter, a beautiful and much sought-after maiden of sixteen. That she was not armed was more than apparent; she was entirely naked.
"Yellow Wolf, my friend," Tall Elk said, "I would speak with you. In peace."
"We can be friends no longer," Yellow Wolf said slowly. "Nor can there be peace. You know the Way. Your son killed my nephew; his blood cries out to me. Blood must be answered by blood, it is the way of our people. The blood of my family has been spilled; the blood of your family must also be spilled."
"It is so," Tall Elk said. "And these are the matters to which I wish to speak."
Yellow Wolf considered this for a moment. "We will talk," he said finally. "In peace. Come inside."
Tall Elk and his daughter entered; in the orange glow of the firelight inside, Little Owl was revealed as more than just beautiful. Her hair was very long, very black; her face was broad, her nose tiny, her eyes large. Below softly rounded shoulders, her breasts, while not large, were high and pert; her waist was very slender, her hips gently curved, her legs rather long and perfect in shape. Though naked, she carried herself with a certain ineffable pride.
Yellow Wolf's elder sons, struck by the girl's beauty, said nothing; the youngest, however, rushed up and began demanding that at least the man be killed at once, that the call for blood be honored.
"No," the older man said. "No, let us hear Tall Elk's words. Let us hear why he has come here, why his daughter has arrived without her clothes."
"I have come," Tall Elk began, "to make an end to the blood between our families. It is so, it is our way, blood calls for blood; it must be so." He glanced at the girl. "Within our family, we have smoked upon these matters, we have talked, and so Little Owl and I have come with an offer."
Yellow Wolf folded his arms across his chest. "And it is?"
He waved a hand toward his daughter. "It is here," he said. "It is why she has come here naked, naked as she was born. If you accept our offer, then she will have no more need of her clothes."
Yellow Wolf stared at the girl. There was no expression of concern or fear on her face. "You are offering her," he said at length. "You are saying to us, spill her blood, send her down to join my nephew in the Darkening Land."
"It is so," Tall Elk told him.
Yellow Wolf looked at the girl's face. "And what of you?" he asked her. "What say you?"
"As my father has offered," she replied in a clear unwavering voice. "If this thirst for blood goes on, many will die, in your family and in ours. It is better for one to die than many. Take me, Uncle. Let my blood wash away your hate."
"You are brave," Yellow Wolf said, putting a hand on her shoulder. He looked at Tall Elk. "It will be done," he said. "Her blood is brave, it will wash away the offense of my nephew's death."
"No, father!" the youngest son cried. "No, it is not enough!"
Yellow Wolf gestured violently. "It is enough," he declared. "So I have said." He shook his head. "It is more than enough, that this brave girl should die." He called to his wife. "Bring food!" he cried. "Bring drink, let us feast, let us feast for Little Owl and for the friendship of our families, soon to be renewed!"
The feast was made; for the next couple of hours all was cheerful in the Yellow Wolf household. Even the youngest son seemed to accept the situation. Little Owl herself appeared in high spirits, though she ate lightly; she laughed at jokes, she bantered and flirted with Yellow Wolf's older sons.
But soon enough the meal was done, and the mood became serious. With a deep sigh, Tall Elk stood up. "Little Owl, my daughter," he said, his voice soft, "come. It is time, time that we be done with this affair." Obediantly, she rose, came to her father; he embraced her briefly, kissed her forehead. "Be brave," he reminded her. "Be a warrior." Then he turned to Yellow Wolf. "Take her now," he told the other man. "She is yours."
Gently, Yellow Wolf took her arm. "And now," he muttered, "to seal this, to make this real, we must indeed kill this girl. It is a waste, a shame." He turned to his sons and brothers. "And where will we do this? We cannot do it here, where we eat, where we greet guests. Shall we take her to another room, out of sight, and put her to death? Or shall we take her outside?"
There was some discussion of this; eventually, outside was agreed upon. "You could remain here," Yellow Wolf told Tall Elk, "and we will return to tell you when it is over, when it has been done. Then, you may take your daughter's body home with you."
"That is best, father," Little Owl murmured. Tall Elk seemed reluctant, but he agreed; Yellow Wolf, falling silent, steered the naked girl toward the door. She went with him willingly, her steps a little unsteady but not hesitant, and Yellow Wolf's three sons followed.
They led her on, around the side of the house; here, near a storage shed, they stopped. "Yellow Wolf, uncle," she asked, "how am I to die?" Her tone was mild but her voice quavered a little.
"I do not want," the old man said, "to kill you at all. I--"
"But you must. You must or this will not end!"
Yellow Wolf sighed. "Yes," he agreed. "And your blood must spill," he went on. "The more that spills, the better. So--"
"You will use your knife, then."
"Yes."
"Ah. As I thought."
He didn't look at her face. "It is what is right. Come," he told her, drawing a hunting knife from his belt. "We must not ask your father to wait long."
"No," she agreed. "Sitting in there, waiting, knowing I am being killed, will be hard for him, I am sure." She stepped boldly up in front of Yellow Wolf. "I am here," she said unnecessarily.
He laid a hand on her shoulder, gazed into her innocent eyes for a moment. "It is the time," he said, drawing back the knife a bit.
"I am ready," she said, and as she spoke he drove the knife forward, burying it in the softness of her lower belly. She gasped and doubled over it; he snatched it free. Blood came spurting out, soaking Yellow Wolf's trousers and moccasins, splashing on the ground.
He kept his hand on her shoulder; her face twisted with the pain, she put out one hand and held his the lapel of his jacket, steadying herself. With the other she covered the wound in her belly, but the blood came rushing through her fingers. No one said anything; eventually, with a great effort, she managed to pull herself erect again. She looked up at Yellow Wolf, but she still said nothing.
"Blood has been spilled," Yellow Wolf said formally. He glanced at his eldest son, and he offered him the bloody knife. "Is it enough for you, my son?" he asked.
The younger man took the proffered weapon. "It is not," he said, though his voice was not harsh.
Gently, Yellow Wolf turned the unresisting girl to the side, faced her toward his son. When her eyes met his, some of the coldness seemed to drain from his face; he looked a little hesitant.
Still holding her belly, she went to him with small, unsteady steps. With her free hand, she touched his face. "I am dying," she reminded him, moving her hand so he could see the wound and the free-flowing blood. "Soon I will be no more. If your thirst for the blood of my family has not been satisfied, then raise your knife, strike! Let my blood quench your thirst, let my pain wash away your hate. Let not my death be for nothing...!"
"I must," he told her. "It would be a dishonor to my cousin if I held my hand."
Still, though, he did not move. With a forced little smile, she reached out, took his wrist, and slowly guided the knife upward toward her own breast. When the point reached her, she did not stop, she pressed it hard into her flesh. She looked down at it; it was indenting her breast deeply, the point lying just under her small nipple.
Even then she did not stop; though tears came to her eyes, she kept right on pulling on his wrist, grinding the hard point into her own breast. "Help me," she begged. "It is very hard, very hard... it pains me, very much..."
He put his arm around her back; leaning forward, she rested her head on his shoulder. Her hand remained on his wrist; he held her in that position for a few seconds, then pushed hard on the knife.
She went rigid, but did not otherwise react; the knife sank on in, slowly, gently. He held it in her for a few seconds, then began withdrawing it, pulling it straight back. When it came out, a new river of blood poured from her breast, soaking his clothes and her body simultaneously.
Unsteady on her feet, she wiped her hands in the flowing blood and put a small handprint on each of his cheeks. "Let it take away the hatred," she whispered. "Let it be gone."
Her knees began to bend then; she caught herself with an effort, did not fall. Carefully, moving very slowly, she knelt down, then sat down; retaining a certain grace in spite of her condition, she laid down in the grass. She rolled onto her side, resting her head on her arm, pulling up her legs a little. Blood pumped from her breast and belly, a spreading pool on the ground.
She looked up. "Come," she said to Yellow Wolf's younger sons. Her voice was strained and faint. "Come, take your revenge on me, plunge your knives into me. I can still feel pain, I still have blood left to be spilled..."
As she spoke, the young man who'd just stabbed her handed the knife to his brother, who came quickly and squatted by her side. When he too seemed a bit hesitant, she reached for his hand, drew it toward herself.
He gently pushed her arm aside. Reaching down, he stroked her side, just under her ribs on the right. She continued to gaze up at him, and neither closed nor averted her eyes when he stabbed her there, driving the knife deeply into her body. She squirmed a little, brought her hand up to her open mouth.
"Yes," she sighed while it was still inside her. "Yes, only pain and blood can wash away hate..."
He began withdrawing the blade; the third son, a teen-ager, took it from him quickly, as soon as it was free of her body. "You will not," he told the dying girl, "have to pull my hand toward you!"
She nodded. He grabbed one of her knees, pulled her halfway over onto her back. She didn't resist him; he pushed her legs far apart.
"My brothers are old women," he snarled. "I, I want to see your pain! I want to wash myself in your blood!"
She gazed steadily at him. "Take it, then," she managed to whisper. "It is yours, I offer it freely..."
Pushing her legs even farther apart, he shoved the point of the blade roughly against her vagina. She flinched, looked down at it with wide eyes; grabbing her shoulder, he tensed his arm as if he was about to force it up inside her. She trembled, but she didn't move or resist, not even this.
Yellow Wolf seized his son's arm. "No," he said firmly. "No. We will kill her and you may have a part in that, but you will not mutilate her so. She deserves more of your respect than that, my son."
"Let him," Little Owl urged. "Let him do what he will, let him spend his rage on me... please, Yellow Wolf, do not stop him..."
The boy stared at her face; she showed some evidence of pain, but not much. Most of the rage in his own expression faded away; he moved the knife away from her vagina.
"What would you have me do, sister?" he asked softly.
She smiled up at him. "Open me up," she answered. "Open me up, let my blood flow free, let me die..."
He nodded; quickly and expertly, he drove the knife into her belly again, just under the first wound she'd received, the edge aimed toward her head. She arched her body; he pulled the knife upward, slitting her belly open, thrusting it deep whenever it neared the surface.
The girl trembled, she gave voice to a mournful little cry; her body shaking, she tore at the grass with her hands as her entrails came into view. Methodically, the boy continued, stabbing deep and cutting, until he'd reached the base of her sternum; once there he kept the blade inside her, working it around, destroying the tissues and organs in that area. On the ground around her a great pool of blood formed, then quickly widened.
Her trembling changed to random twitches; her body bounced a few times as her eyes began to glaze. The boy drew the knife out of her, handed it back to his father.
The old man, looking older than ever, sighed. "Let us go," he said. "Let us return to Tall Elk; we must tell him that his daughter is dead, we must tell him that she died bravely, like a warrior. We must let him take her body home." He shook his head. "My heart is heavy," he continued, "for the family of our friend."