The old Indian walked slowly through the woods as he has done so many times before. His steps were shorter now, than in his youth, for the years had taken a toll on his strength. But what had slowed and aged the Indian the most were the wounds he had received on his journeys. In his youth they were mere scratches and hardly noticed, but as he gave his heart in love, wounds became deeper and more harmful.
The first wound to take a toll on the Indian required several years to heal and left a scar seen by all. But the Indian healed and once again gave his heart in an engagement.
Though the first wound of many years ago seemed severe, it was the next two encounters that weakened the Indian to the point he could not survive the last of the wounds. The encounters were quick in coming and left no time for healing between the onslaught. As the wounds were stuck, the old Indian could fell the hard thump upon his breast and felt the hurt go deep, creating large slashes for his strength to seep away. The last wound that would bring the old Indian his demise, did not come with force, but disguised as a gift. He once again wanted to feel the strength of youth, and welcomed that gift, which unknowingly would strike the fatale blows to him.
His last day came when the old Indian was walking through the forest, alone and slow. Fancying his senses as they were in his youth, the old Indian threw caution to the wind. As he came upon a clearing in the woods, his eyes fell upon a bed of fresh straw. There by the wild golden rods blowing to and fro in the wind, lie three feathers. As he neared them, he felt the strength of youth once again in his old frail body. Instinctively he knew the strength was coming from the three feathers, and as he lifted the first feather, his strength within grew even stronger.
The first feather was pure white as a fresh winter's snow and as he held it to his breast he felt peace as one would feels when spring renews the earth after a harsh winter. He then pick up the second feather, which was blue as the summer sky, and placed it upon his breast next to the white feather of peace. In his heart he felt the sense of friendship, as one feels with an old friend who shares the same heart.
The last feather that lay upon the straw was as golden as the sunsets, and, like the first two, the old Indian picked it up. As he drew the golden feather closer to his breast he felt the strength of love which made his tired hand grow stronger and steadier. Upon placing the gold feather upon his chest, his heart beat once more with the power and strength of his youth. The old Indian could feel his whole body once again become strong. His eyesight was as clear and sharp as when he was a youth of 18 summers. His legs regained strength and were once again strong, holding him tall.
As the old Indian stood with the gift of the three feathers upon his breast, his mind thought of nothing but the renewed happiness his body and mind once more felt. He did not notice that now, once joined, the feathers took the form of a red killing spear and thrust it self-deep into the old Indian's chest. The spear drove deep into the old Indian's heart and delivered a deathblow to his soul.
As the young worriers of the camp came upon the old Indian, he was slumped against a huge weathered rock. They could see in his weary eyes his days of engagements would no longer be. They wondered why, for the wound he received was deep within his chest, but not visible to the eyes of others.
As they laid the old Indian in his teepee, it was obvious his strength was gone, and what days he had left would be spent alone tending to his fatal wound. As the eldest of the young braves covered the old Indian with a blanked, he noticed three scars upon the old Indian's chest. He and was amazed at how they took the shape of three feathers held in a cluster.
