Echoes of Ancient Adventures

The salt spray stung Captain Mago's face, a familiar caress after weeks at sea. The Star of Alexandria, a sturdy galleas built for trade but easily adaptable for war, sliced through the waves, its single square sail billowing in the relentless Atlantic wind. One hundred and five souls, a motley collection of merchants, mercenaries, and dreamers, clung to the ship, their eyes fixed on the ever-receding shoreline of their known world.

Mago, a man sculpted by the harsh sun and relentless winds of his native Alexandria, adjusted the bronze torque around his neck. His crew, mostly hardened seafarers from Tyre, grumbled and toiled, their faces etched with a mixture of hope and apprehension. They were sailing into the unknown, westward to the lands whispered of in taverns and sung about by bards – lands where heroes were forged, and fortunes lay waiting to be plundered.

The journey was fraught with peril. Storms, as unpredictable as the gods themselves, tossed the Star of Alexandria like a child's toy. They navigated treacherous currents, the sailors' keen eyes constantly scanning the horizon for signs of land or, more often, the telltale glint of pirates' sails.

After what seemed an eternity, the endless blue began to lighten, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Land! A vast, green land unlike anything they had ever seen.

They cautiously navigated a narrow strait, entering a series of immense, freshwater seas. The water, so clear it shimmered like polished topaz, was a welcome change from the endless saltwater. They were in the lands of the waters the natives called Mishigami.

For months, they sailed, trading with the sparse tribes they encountered along the shores. Mago, fluent in several tongues, bartered for furs, unique stones, and stories of the land. He found that these people knew much little about the value of the goods he brought from across the sea. Tools, beads and cloth were traded for many times their worth.

It was near the southern tip of Mishigami that they heard whispers that ignited their avarice. Tales of a people to the south, who possessed a wealth of khalkos – copper. Mountains of it, they said, more than any man could dream of.

Mago paced the deck, his mind ablaze with possibilities. Copper was the blood of their age. It could be forged into weapons, armor, tools, and traded for unimaginable riches. He gathered his most seasoned warriors, fifty strong, their eyes gleaming with the same hunger that burned in his own.

"We will venture inland," he announced, his voice ringing with authority. "We will find these rumored people and claim what is rightfully ours."

The journey south was arduous. They followed ancient trails, hacking their way through dense forests, their bronze swords glinting in the dappled sunlight. Rivers that seemed to stretch on forever tested their strength and endurance. After seventeen stades (nearly 20 miles) they arrived at the edge of a large village.

The village was a cluster of sturdy, wood-framed structures, surrounded by a palisade of sharpened logs. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and something else... a musky, primal scent that sent a shiver down Mago's spine.

He ordered his men to halt. He would try parlay first, although his mind was already set. He approached the palisade cautiously, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.

A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and muscular, adorned with feathers and beads. His face, painted with intricate patterns, was impassive, his eyes cold and wary.

Mago spoke in the trade language he had learned on his journey. "We come in peace," he said, his voice carefully modulated. "We seek only to trade."

The native warrior listened intently, his expression unchanging. When Mago finished, he responded in a guttural language that was foreign to him. Mago looked to one of his companions who had picked up some of the local language, The local man spoke. "They say they do not trade with outsiders. They say we must leave and never return."

Mago felt a surge of anger. He had come too far, risked too much, to be denied now. He tried to reason with the warrior, offering gifts of beads and tools, but the native remained resolute.

"They have nothing you will want, leave now or die." His companion translated.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the village. Tensions mounted, the air crackling with anticipation. Mago saw the fire in his men's eyes, the hunger for glory and plunder. He knew violence was inevitable.

He signaled his men, drawing his bronze sword. The natives responded with a war cry, a chilling sound that echoed through the forest.

The battle was brutal and chaotic. The natives, though outnumbered, fought with a ferocity born of desperation, defending their homes and their way of life. They rained down arrows from behind the palisade, their spears finding gaps in the invaders' armor.

Mago led the charge, his sword a blur of bronze. He cut down warrior after warrior, his battle cry drowning out the screams of the wounded and dying. But the natives were relentless, swarming around him like angry hornets.

The fighting raged for two days and nights, a bloody dance of death under the watchful eyes of the gods. The invaders, despite their superior weapons and training, were slowly being worn down. The natives knew the land, they were strong, and they had numbers.

On the third day, the invaders broke through. The natives scattered, their morale shattered. The village was theirs.

But victory came at a terrible price. Eight of Mago's men lay dead, their bodies mangled and broken. More than fifty natives littered the village, their blood staining the earth.

Mago surveyed the carnage, his heart heavy with a mix of triumph and regret. The village was theirs, but the promised riches were nowhere to be found. There was copper, yes, but not in the abundance they had been led to believe. It was mostly used for tools and adornments, not the mountains of ore they had envisioned.

Disillusioned and defeated, Mago ordered his men to gather what little copper they could find. They ransacked the village, taking what they deemed valuable – tools, weapons, and ornaments.

Before leaving, they gathered the bodies of their fallen comrades. They carried them a short distance from the village, to a clearing bathed in the soft light of the setting sun.

They dug a shallow pit, lining it with stones. They laid the bodies of their dead in a spoke-like pattern, their feet pointing towards the center, their heads facing outwards. It was the custom of their people, a way to honor the fallen and ensure their passage to the afterlife. With heavy hearts, they buried their comrades, covering them with earth and stones, marking the burial site with a circle of rocks.

Mago stood silently for a moment, paying his respects to the dead. He knew that their names would be spoken no more, their sacrifices forgotten.

They returned to their ship, their dreams of wealth and glory shattered. The journey back across the Atlantic was long and arduous, the Star of Alexandria battered and scarred, a reflection of the men aboard.

Eight years after setting sail, the Star of Alexandria limped back into the harbor of Tyre. Of the original one hundred and five souls, only twenty-nine remained. They were weathered, weary, and disillusioned.

They brought back tales of a vast, green land, of great freshwater seas, and of fierce warriors who guarded their secrets jealously. But few believed them. They were dismissed as liars, drunkards, and madmen.

The copper they had brought back was sold, but it barely covered the cost of the voyage. Mago, once a respected captain, was now an outcast, haunted by the ghosts of his fallen comrades.

The Star of Alexandria lay rotting in the harbor, a silent testament to a failed dream. The lands to the west remained a mystery, their secrets guarded by the spirits of the dead.

Walkerton, Indiana, 1925.

The air hung heavy with the scent of freshly turned earth. A farmer with calloused hands and a back bent by years of toil, wiped the sweat from his brow. He had been plowing this field his whole life, but today, something was different. The plow struck something hard, jarring him roughly.

He dismounted the cart and knelt, brushing away the soil. He unearthed a stone, then another, and another, until a circle of rocks emerged from the earth. Curiosity piqued, he dug deeper.

He unearthed a skull. And another. And another. Eight in total, arranged in a spoke-like pattern, their feet pointing towards the center, their skulls facing outwards.

He stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. This was no ordinary burial. This was something ancient, something strange.

He continued to excavate, uncovering more bones, each one a stark reminder of mortality. He found copper bands, green with age, wrapped around the wrists of some of the skeletons. He found pounds of raw copper ore, scattered amongst the bones.

Then he found it. One of the skeletons, larger than the others, appeared to be wearing fragments of copper armor. Embedded in the skull of another was a crudely fashioned flint arrowhead. Evidence of a violent end, a story etched in bone and stone.

Finally, he unearthed two pipe bowls, carved from a dark, unknown wood. One was plain, but the other was etched with a strange symbol, a spiral intersected by a straight line, a design that seemed to resonate with a forgotten power.

The farmer contacted the local authorities, and soon, archaeologists swarmed over his farm, meticulously documenting the find. They dated the remains to the Copper Age, a time long before recorded history.

The artifacts were carefully cataloged and sent to universities for further study. The copper armor, the arrowhead, the strange symbols on the pipe bowl – they were all pieces of a puzzle, a tantalizing glimpse into a past that defied easy explanation.

The skeletons, arranged in their peculiar spoke-like pattern, whispered a silent story of violence, death, and a journey to a land far from home. They were the forgotten soldiers, the ghosts of a dream, their final resting place far from the shores of Alexandria and Tyre.

The farmer would pass the land down to his children. Many archeologist came and went but none were able to unlock to secret of the burial. Some thought it was evidence of ancient native cultures, while others saw it as proof of the lost colony of wanderers.

The truth, like the bones themselves, would remain buried, a testament to the enduring mysteries of the past. A reminder that even in the heartland of America, the echoes of ancient adventures, and the secrets of forgotten peoples could still be unearthed.