Soft Rain (2 page)

“Once a brother and sister wandered away from their parents while they were picking berries. It was after dark when the Little People found the children near their cave high on the mountainside. They brought the young ones inside the cave, warmed them, fed them
shule
, yellow acorn bread, dipped in bear oil, then took them back to their home in the village. For years afterward, whenever the children went berry picking, they could hear the drums of the Little People in the distance and they felt safe.”

Soft Rain laid her head on Grandmother’s lap, where
she
felt safe.
Do the Little People still help children!
she asked herself.
When I am alone in the woods
, she thought,
I will look and listen for signs of them
.

“I believe in the Little People,” Grandmother said, as if she understood Soft Rain’s thoughts.

Mother said, “Hawk Boy also believes. I’m sorry he missed your story.”

“I’ll try to remember it well and tell it to him tonight,” Soft Rain answered. “Where is Hawk Boy? Is he still with Father?”

“Yes,” Mother said. “Your father is repairing the
fallen fences and burning the dry cornstalks he has been hoeing. Hawk Boy begged to help him. What a disappointment for your brother that the teacher is moving! He wants so much to learn to read.” She laughed. “Soft Rain, sometimes when you are at school he makes marks in the sand, pretending to write words.”

Soft Rain smiled. She had seen some of Hawk Boy’s scribbles. They reminded her suddenly of her cousin Green Fern, who would be waiting for Soft Rain where the river runs narrow.

“I must go soon. Green Fern will be expecting me to tell her about school, as I always do.”

Green Fern’s parents did not allow their daughter to go to school. Soft Rain’s mother had once explained this to her. “Aunt Kee and Uncle Swimming Bear, like many of our people, want nothing from the white man, not even his alphabet. Since your school teaches both the white man’s writing and Sequoyah’s, they have chosen that Green Fern learn neither.”

Now Mother warned, “Soft Rain, you may tell Father and Hawk Boy about the letter, but don’t tell Green Fern. Aunt Kee would not want her to worry.”

Soft Rain put her hand over her mouth. For a
while she had forgotten the horrid letter and its command.

“I won’t tell her about moving west,” she said. But she
would
tell her cousin other things.

She and Green Fern had been keeping a secret from everyone, even Hawk Boy. Since school had begun, Soft Rain had been teaching Green Fern to read. Each day at the river’s edge she wrote a word in the damp earth; first the white man’s way, then Sequoyah’s. Aunt Kee and Uncle Swimming Bear would be angry with them if they knew.

But I can teach Hawk Boy in the same way
, Soft Rain suddenly realized. Jumping up from the ground, she shouted, “Mother, Grandmother, listen to my idea! I will be Hawk Boy’s teacher. In the sand I can write words from Grandmother’s stories, first the white man’s way, then Sequoyah’s. Hawk Boy can learn to read in
my
school and write
real
words in the sand. Do you think I can do it?”

Facing toward Soft Rain, Grandmother said, “Of course you can teach your young brother. Just like the Little People, you are patient and kind.”

The Little People. Soft Rain wanted to believe. All the way to the river she looked and listened, stopping often. The wind sang through the trees, but she heard no drums.

Green Fern, with her back to Soft Rain, sat on the riverbank, peering down the path. Jumping at the sound of footsteps behind her, she turned toward Soft: Rain. “Why do you come from the direction of your home instead of town?” she asked.

Soft Rain stopped in her tracks. How should she answer?

G
reen Fern and I have never had secrets from each other
, Soft Rain thought.
How can I not tell her about the letter?
She took a deep breath and said, “Green Fern, we’re going to have more time together, more time to practice writing. There will be no more school. The teacher is moving away.”

“Where is she moving?” Green Fern asked.

“She is moving west.”

“West! No one moves west.”

“The teacher is.”

Green Fern frowned. “Father says that’s the land of blackness. The souls of the dead go there and are always miserable because they can never return home. I would be afraid to move there.”

Soft Rain sighed inside. She wouldn’t have to choose between lying and telling about the letter, because Green Fern hadn’t asked her
why
the teacher was moving.

“I would be afraid, too,” she said. “But look at the book of words the teacher gave me. It is called a spelling book.” Slipping the pouch off her shoulder, she untied it, opened the book, and leafed through its pages. “We can both learn new words, because there are many I don’t know. And I’m going to teach words to …”

Soft Rain stopped talking. Green Fern was not looking at the book. Her face was gloomy; her shoulders sagged.

Gently Soft Rain asked, “Don’t you want to read and write more words? Or hear more stories? If I can keep telling Grandmother’s stories to you and Hawk Boy, one day I will be as good a storyteller as she is.”

Green Fern stopped staring at her moccasins; her dark eyes met Soft Rain’s. “Oh, yes, I like the words and stories! But there is work to do. Mother and Father insist that I help them plant the seeds. They say we are wasting time talking and telling stories.”

Is Green Fern in trouble because of my stories?
Soft Rain wondered. She hadn’t told her cousin any
scary stories about the West and the souls of the dead; Uncle Swimming Bear had done that. For the second time that day, Soft Rain was puzzled. But she wanted to make Green Fern feel better.

In a deep voice like Uncle Swimming Bear’s, she growled,
“We must stop wasting time!”

Although Green Fern laughed, her eyes were sad. “When will we meet again?” she asked.

“I have decided to help Father in the field,” Soft Rain said. Even though Hawk Boy was there, she knew he wasn’t as much help as he thought he was. “There will be lots of time for words and stories after the seeds are in the ground,” she promised.

Green Fern nodded, then turned away quickly without a word. Stepping lightly on the flat stones, she crossed the river and disappeared into the woods.

Soft Rain followed the narrow path home under low overhanging branches, and soon she smelled Father’s fire. She heard him and Hawk Boy laughing before they saw her.

“This is a surprise!” Father exclaimed. “Why are you home so early?”

Soft Rain told them about the letter and about the teacher’s moving. Hesitating, she asked, “Will we have to move west?”

“We’re busy cultivating our land. It’s the planting season. We don’t even have time to think of it,” Father answered.

Then Soft Rain knew she had been right. If they planted their crops, they could not move west. She was joyful inside.

When she told Hawk Boy about
her
school, his eyes danced. “Let’s start now,” he begged.

“There will be time for learning after the New Moon Festival,” Father told them.

They knew that he meant they must first help with the planting and weeding. They spent the rest of the afternoon carrying last year’s cornstalks to the fire Father tended. By the time they left, the fire had burned out; the field was cleared, ready for the plow.

“
W
e will not move west!
We
didn’t sign the treaty.”

Soft Rain awoke with a start. Her father’s voice was louder than she had ever heard it.

“Let those who signed the treaty move west. We will not leave our beloved mountains or this home we built. It’s the time of the first new moon; the field is ready. Tomorrow I plow.”

Quiet followed Father’s outburst. Then Soft Rain heard her mother say, “After the plowing, we’ll all help plant the beans and
selu
. Sleep now before we disturb the children.”

Next to Soft Rain, Hawk Boy’s bed creaked as he stirred in his sleep. Soft Rain curled herself into a ball, pulling the blanket tightly over her head.
Move west
—there were those hated words again. Little John had thrown his book away after he heard them. Green Fern had called the West the land of blackness, where the souls of the dead go. The teacher had cried when she told the class about moving. Why would any Tsalagi go there?

Father had said they had no time to think about it, yet he was using his sleeping hours to discuss it. Did he mean they should not think about it during the day? Soft Rain fell into a restless sleep trying to untangle her confused thoughts.

In the morning Father was gone. Soft Rain smelled the freshly baked bread that Mother had prepared for the noon meal. “I can take Father his food today,” she volunteered.

“Wash yourself first,” Mother said.

Pet, the puppy, followed Soft Rain to the creek. The moss on the bank was cool, but not so cool as the water. Soft Rain waded in cautiously. Taking a deep breath, she bent over, splashing water on her face. Pet splashed too. “Aieee!” she screamed at the puppy. “I didn’t need any more water on me!” She jumped out of the creek, dried herself quickly, and ran home, chasing Pet.

When Hawk Boy passed her on his way to wash, Pet ran after him.

“She’ll splash you!” Soft Rain warned.

“Water can’t hurt me,” Hawk Boy shouted.

It did, though. From inside the house, Soft Rain and Mother laughed at his screeches, but Grandmother laughed loudest.

“Hawk Boy is not as brave as he thinks he is,” she said.

When her brother came inside the cabin, Soft Rain giggled. “You look cold. Did Pet splash you?”

“That Pet is trouble, but I splashed her, too. Is it time to learn words yet?”

“We haven’t heard a story this morning,” Soft Rain said.

After Grandmother’s story, the children and Pet took Father’s food to the field. Then Soft Rain wrote words in the newly plowed earth until Hawk Boy grew more interested in gathering worms. “For fishing,” he said.

Soft Rain shook her head. “No fishing until the planting is done,” she reminded him. “We could play a short game of
chungke
, though.” She picked up a rounded stone and tossed it nearly into the grass.

Hawk Boy found two sticks, which they threw at the stone, trying to be closest to it, or to hit the other stick. They could do neither. “How do the
chungke
players hit the rolling stone?” Hawk Boy asked.

Father joined them. “I’ll show you,” he answered. He tossed the stone so that it rolled along the ground, then quickly threw the stick after it, hitting the stone before it stopped moving. Astonished, Soft Rain and Hawk Boy laughed all the way home.

The next morning Soft Rain said, “Time for a story, Grandmother.”

But Father announced, “The plowing is done; the field is ready. Soft Rain, we must all help. Stories can come later.”

Without protesting once, Soft Rain picked up her pouch and began filling it with corn bread. Father didn’t know that she
already
felt she must help with the planting this year. She looked at Grandmother.
Does she understand how important it is to plant our crops immediately?
Soft Rain wondered.

“There will be time for stories tonight,” Grandmother said.

Of course she understands
, thought Soft Rain. She hugged Grandmother. “Think of a good one for me,” she whispered.

“And me,” Hawk Boy added.

Father carried the baskets filled with corn. Soft Rain walked behind him, now and then picking up a kernel that spilled out. Hawk Boy walked beside
Mother, leading Pet and talking all the way to the field.

“I’ll make the holes,” Father said, handing a basket to Soft Rain. “You and Hawk Boy place five kernels in each hole and Mother will cover them.”

He started singing,
“Yoho-o! Yoho-o! Yoho-o!”
Everyone joined in, and the work seemed easy.

Soft Rain stopped to stretch when her back grew tired. While she drank from the water bag, she watched Hawk Boy try to drop in the kernels without having to bend over. They only occasionally landed in the hole.

When Mother also paused to rest, Father said to Soft Rain, “Go to Grandmother, eat, and hear your story now. Hawk Boy?”

“I can plant a whole row while they are gone!” the boy exclaimed.

Father laughed. “I will help Hawk Boy.”

“When I come back, I’ll cover all the kernels you plant,” Soft Rain told them.

The rope holding Pet was wound tightly around a tree. She loosened it and they ran home together, far ahead of Mother.

A
t the end of three days all the
selu
had been planted. Then Soft Rain watched and counted. In just five days the weeds appeared. Every morning while she helped Father weed, she wondered if Green Fern was helping Uncle Swimming Bear. Every day on her way home she picked colorful, dainty violets for Grandmother.

At last the day came when Soft Rain could not see over the tops of the corn plants. “The
selu
has grown taller than both of us, Hawk Boy,” she said. “Tonight is the celebration—the Green Corn Dance!”

“Yes, this is the last day to weed,” Father announced. “Tonight there will be singing and dancing,
and you will see Green Fern and Aunt Kee.” He looked up at the sun, then back down at Soft Rain. “Hungry? Go home to Mother and Grandmother. Take Pet. Hawk Boy and I will finish soon.”

“I’m not hungry,” Hawk Boy bragged.

Pet must have been, though. She ran faster than Soft Rain. With her cabin in sight, Soft Rain tugged on the rope. “Wait, Pet! I want to pick some flowers for Grandmother. She won’t be able to attend the dance tonight. Flowers will comfort her.” She unfastened Pet, hanging the rope around her own neck. Pet ran home ahead of Soft Rain.

Grandmother was sitting by the hearth stirring the soup. She smiled when she smelled the flowers Soft: Rain moved back and forth under her nose.