I Am Regina (10 page)

Nonschetto signals to Thistle. The gray dog trots over to her side. “Perhaps by the time we return from trading, Thistle will have puppies for you.”

“I cannot wait to see them. But ... I wish you didn't have to go.” I hang my head, not wanting her to see my tears.

Nonschetto lifts my chin. “You are a strong girl, Tskinnak. Believe me. You will manage. Everything will be all right.”

I bite my lip to keep from crying, for I remember a time, not so long ago, when my mother left me too. Nothing was all right after that.

“Come.” Nonschetto takes my hand, a warm smile filling her face. “We must build our fires. The kindling you gathered is good and dry. It will bum.”

 

 

 

T
iger Claw left the day after Nonschetto and Clear Sky paddled their canoe past me and down the stream. He handed Woelfin two pheasants and a rabbit he'd shot and said he would be traveling to the Tuscarora River. There, he would trade furs with a Frenchman named Dupré. I was relieved to see him go.

But now, the pheasant and the rabbit meat is gone. Even the bones, which I used to make a broth. Last night, when Quetit complained that she was hungry, I began reluctantly to look for Tiger Claw's return. Along with guns, he promised he would bring back blankets and food—salt, white man's bread and venison. Until he comes, we live on sugar cakes and nuts.

When I scrape away the leaves covering the hole in which I store our food, I think of Nonschetto—how she taught me how to gather sap. Little Gokhas loved the sugar cakes we made. He would kick his feet in pleasure as he sucked on one. I miss my friends. I mark the days that they've been gone in the bark of the willow tree and pray: “Lord, in the shadow of your wings, hide my friends from any danger. Bring them safely home.”

Now it is late afternoon on the thirteenth day since Nonschetto and Gokhas left. Woelfin naps and the village is quiet. I play a game with Quetit and her two small friends—Stone Face, a sturdy boy with a pock-marked face, and little Nunscheach with big brown eyes and a sweet heart-shaped face. It is a game that Quetit is fond of playing.

I help the little girls build a house of twigs while Stone Face makes a confusion of interconnecting paths leading to it. The object of the game is to move the two twig dolls Quetit and Nunscheach have made through the paths until they reach the house. Inside the house sits the little corn husk doll I made for Quetit in the winter. Quetit calls her “the mother doll.”

But today, Stone Face is in a contrary mood. The paths he draws with his forked stick crisscross through the spring mud outside our hut in an endless maze that Quetit and Nunscheach cannot follow. Even I cannot find the end to it.

Finally, in disgust, Quetit grabs a log and rolls it across the mud, wiping out the little paths Stone Face made and making one large one.

Stone Face scowls. He tells Quetit she has spoiled the game. He throws his stick on the ground and stalks away, his body stiff with anger. Nunscheach giggles. Triumphantly, she and Quetit hop their dolls down the broad path and into their home.

Later, as I remove the last of the sugar cakes from the hole in which I've stored them, I think of what Quetit did. It looked so easy, taking a log, wiping out the paths someone else has made and starting anew. But it takes courage, too.

At night, while the fire smolders and Woelfin mutters angrily at the feathers she is working into an elaborate feathered cloak, Quetit climbs into my lap. “Tskinnak,” she says. “I hurt.” She points to her belly.

“You are hungry,” I say, feeling my own belly grumble. “Here.” I tighten the deerskin belt around Quetit's waist. “This will make your belly feel as if it's full. Tomorrow I will hunt for you.”

“Tomorrow you hunt,” she says.

“Yes,” I say, dreading the thought. I wish it were summer instead of early spring. Then the forest and meadows would be full of wild food I could gather—berries, fruit and nuts.

Quetit scrambles out of my lap and over to her bed. She removes her corn husk doll from a nest of deerskin blankets. She tightens the little rope belt that holds the doll together. Then she speaks softly to the doll, repeating all the words I've said. “Tomorrow we hunt,” she whispers.

Sweet Quetit. Acting like a mother to a little corn husk doll. I love her.

I reach under my bed and pull out the basket where I've stored leftover scraps of deerskin. As I begin to sew them together into a shawl to keep Quetit warm, I hear the murmur of low voices outside our hut.

I glance at Woelfin. She stares at the door flap. The firelight flickers as it opens. Tiger Claw staggers through after twelve days' absence.

I look at him expectantly. Hoping to see a side of deer. A cake of salt. Bread.

Tiger Claw's hands look empty.

I smell rum. Again. Anger begins to build inside me. When Tiger Claw drinks, he thinks of no one but himself. We have been waiting for the food he promised. We are hungry.

“Where are the blankets that you promised us?” Woelfin says, her voice sounding cold as winter. “Where are the guns? The hunting knives? The venison?”

Tiger Claw does not answer. He stares at me. I drop my eyes and intently stitch the deerskin shawl, not wanting him to sense my anger. It might make him turn on me.

My hands move the bone needle in and out of deerskin. Tiger Claw begins speaking to his mother in a low, slurred voice. I find it hard to understand what he is saying. Something about there being no time for hunting. Something about a cache of rum.

“Drunken dog!” Woelfin screams when she discovers that his empty hands speak true, that Tiger Claw has brought us nothing but foul-smelling breath. Again.

“You let Dupré feed you drink! Then while you sleep, he steals our furs!”

“Dupré does not steal from me!” Tiger Claw says loudly. “At the time of roasting ears, the Frenchman will pay for the furs. I have his word!”

“Words do not warm us like the blankets we need. Words do not cut like hunting knives. You should have gone with Clear Sky. He trades with John Mountain. John Mountain is an honest man.”

“John Mountain lives five nights' walk from here,” Tiger Claw says. “Clear Sky has not returned. But see, I am here.”

I raise my eyes as Tiger Claw staggers across the floor. “Did you see Nonschetto when you were trading?” I ask, my need to know what has happened to my friend conquering any fear I have of Tiger Claw.

“I saw no Indians but Shawnee. They carry scalping knives and guns into valleys where the white man builds his cabins. Soon the French and Indian will kill all the Yengee devils.” Tiger Claw laughs, a low and ugly sound, and approaches Quetit's bed. She hastily crawls out of it and onto mine, clutching her doll.

“Where is Nonschetto?” she whispers, glancing anxiously at Tiger Claw. He slumps across her bed.

“I don't know. She should be here by now,” I say.

Tiger Claw turns his back to us and he begins to snore. With a stick, Woelfin pokes at the fire, making it spit and crackle. I feel her anger and frustration. We can never depend on Tiger Claw to bring us anything but scalps and talk of war. I see dark and endless years stretch out before me, filled with constant pain and hunger.

I don't sleep well that night, for my belly aches as does my heart. I worry about Nonschetto. If war has broken out where she is trading, she might get caught in rifle fire. I worry about the safety of the white man who has built his cabins in the valleys. I worry about myself. With white man pitted against white man, no one will remember one girl captured by an Indian. I tell myself I must be strong, let my heart take courage, for the Lord upholds me even now. But my sleep is troubled. In the dark hours before dawn, it begins to rain.

Early the next morning, I awaken. The fire is burning low. I rise and feed it kindling.

Quetit joins me, rubbing her hands over the flames. “Tskinnak,” she whispers, “my belly aches.”

Tiger Claw snores and mumbles in his sleep. He must still be drunk. Woelfin, nestled in her bearskin robe, sleeps soundly now. But when she awakens, she will be hungry, too. My heart sinks when I think of the mice and rats I must now catch to feed us.

I pick up the club I'd left beside the door flap.

“Must we hunt mice?” Quetit asks, making a face. “I don't like them.”

“We will sweeten the meat with sugar cakes,” I say.

“But, Tskinnak. You said the sugar cakes were gone.”

“I forgot.”

“Can we hunt other things?” she asks.

As I begin to shake my head, the image of Gokhotit fishing crosses my mind. Just as quickly, I dismiss it. I don't know how to fish. I've seen no other women do it. Woelfin would mock me if I tried.

Then I think of the pit in which I've stored our sugar cakes and nuts. It's all dark and empty now.

“Even wolf cubs grow into hunters,” Nonschetto once told me.

I glance at Quetit, so small and trusting. She has no one to provide her food, but me. Nonschetto is gone and Tiger Claw might as well be.

“Come,” I tell Quetit with resolve, remembering how she'd made her own way to a small twig house. “Today we are going fishing. We must try to catch maschilamek, the trout, to fill your belly. You will like the flesh. Nonschetto says that it is firm and sweet.”

“Maschilamek,” Quetit says. She picks up the basket we use for food gathering and follows me outside. The sun is breaking through the clouds and the air smells green like fresh-cut grass.

I tie a withered bird claw to a grape vine. The knot I make looks thick and clumsy, but it should hold. I bait the claw with softened corn, then throw the line into the stream and jerk it through the water. Quetit crouches beside me, watching.

Something tugs on the vine!

I flick it the way I saw Gokhotit do. The bird claw flies out of the water.

The corn is not on it. Neither is maschilamek.

Quetit dances around me as I bait my hook again. “We have fed maschilamek the corn. Now he must feed us.” I throw the line back in, praying that this time I will catch him.

Again maschilamek eats my corn. Again he swims away.

If I do not catch him, I will have to go back to clubbing mice. I know where they nest in the garden straw. I do not want to peel away the straw. I do not want to see the small gray bodies scurry. My flesh crawls at the thought.

I throw my line downstream and flick it though the water, making the corn look like a fast-moving yellow bug.

Maschilamek strikes.

I pull back hard and fast. My bird claw flies from the water. Maschilamek flies with it! He lands on the stream bank. I fling myself upon him. I grab his slippery body. He squirms, but I do not let him squirm away. He is big! Far bigger than the fish Gokhotit caught! And at that moment, holding the rainbowed fish within my hands, I feel a strange new sense of self-importance. No one has told me what to do or how to do it. I, Tskinnak, have done this on my own.

“Tskinnak!” Quetit cries, jumping up and down in excitement. “You have caught a fish! A big fish!” She runs ahead of me, her moccasined feet flying down the beaten path toward our hut. She stops at the door flap.

She knows not to run inside the hut. If she awakens Tiger Claw, he will be angry.

Woelfin is awake. Her eyes widen when she sees what I have caught. “Maschilamek!” she says. Her hands tremble as she takes the fish from me.

She walks stiffly to a basket and brings out a sharp-ended bone. She keeps the fish and hands the bone to me. “Cross the stream where the tree was struck by lightning. Climb the bank. You will find a clearing in the trees. Wild garlic grows there like ticks on a dog. Bring me a basketful.”

“But the fish,” I say, my belly rumbling with hunger.

“I will build the fire and roast the fish while you are gone. Then we will eat fresh garlic greens with it for breakfast.” For one moment, a smile crosses Woelfin's face. It is the first time she has ever smiled at me.

I, Tskinnak, have made Woelfin smile!

I rush back outside. “We must gather garlic,” I tell Quetit who has been waiting for me by the door flap. I feel important. Full of what I have accomplished.

Just as Quetit and I are about to enter the forest, a dog howls. Someone is entering the village. It is Clear Sky! And ... Nonschetto is with him! She carries Gokhas on her back. Thistle follows close behind. Four little puppies crowd her flanks, awkward on their short and stubby legs. The three bigger ones are brown, like their father who belongs to Woates. The fourth one is little. He is gray-haired like Thistle.

I am so relieved and happy, I do not know what to say.

Flat Nose, Woates and the other women in the village crowd around Nonschetto. She shows them a handful of blue and red beads, a large bone-handled knife. Trading has been good. I want to join them, but I feel shy. I lead Quetit to the puppies. Thistle wags her tail and licks our faces while we pet them.

I like the little gray one best. He nuzzles my hand and tries to nurse my fingers.

I feel a warm hand on my back. “Tskinnak. You have been well?” The skin around Nonschetto's eyes crinkles as she smiles at me. I love her smile. It fills her face.

“I ... am well.”

“Tskinnak caught a fish,” Quetit says. “It was big. As big as—” she stretches out her arms full length.

“That is a big fish. Tskinnak should be proud.”

I cuddle the gray puppy in my arms as he happily licks my face.

“The puppies are only eight days old,” Nonschetto says. “But see how strong they are? When they no longer need to nurse, I will give you one.”