Soft Rain (6 page)

“Soft Rain, ask the chief to share our food.” Mother offered the chief a small loaf of warm bread.

Breaking off a piece, he said, “Thank you, but I can’t stay. There will be another council meeting before we sleep this night.”

Soft Rain quickly looked up into his eyes. Before she asked her question, he answered it.

“Yes, I shall keep asking about your father.” He swallowed the bread, mounted his horse, and was gone.

Soft Rain did not see the chief for days. “He is busy helping people get ready to start west,” Mother said.

Then it happened, early one morning. They were awakened by the noise and confusion of people and snorting animals: riders on horseback, and wagons filled with little children, mothers about to give birth, and old people who could never walk the great distance. Behind them were the walkers—too many to count.

After the last person disappeared from sight, an eerie stillness fell over the camp, until in a few days another group left.

Soft Rain watched the leaves turn yellow. They reminded her that the time was near for the New Moon Festival.
If we were still home
, she thought,
our
selu
would be picked and stored for winter, and Green Fern and I would be dancing
. Soft Rain’s eyes filled with tears. She and her cousin would never dance together again. There would be no festival at Rattlesnake Springs.

“
T
ime to go. It’s time to go.” Though Soft Rain heard Mother’s voice, she continued dancing—dancing while Grandmother and Green Fern watched. Step, step; toe down, heel down. Faster and faster she moved, rattling the pebbles in the terrapin shells tied to her legs.
Shucka-shucka
, went the pebbles.
Shucka-shucka
… From far away she heard Mother’s voice again….

“Wake up, Soft Rain. The chief just came to tell us it’s time for
us
to go.”

Reluctantly Soft Rain opened her eyes and sighed. It had been a pleasing dream. She ate her morning bread in near darkness, for the sun was not yet awake. In the dimness she watched the preparations for her journey west. Wagons were loaded
with baskets and boxes of supplies; then the people unable to walk the trail soon crowded into the wagons, and drivers inspected the wheels before climbing aboard.

The chief rode back and forth, from the front of the line to the rear, giving orders to the drivers and other leaders. The sun was high overhead before he told Mother, Soft Rain, and Aunt Kee to get in line. When Soft Rain heard his call, “Move on,” echoing down the line of waiting Tsalagi, she turned for a last look at the mountains she was leaving behind.

They wound their way through the dense woods along the Hiwassee River until they heard cries. “Take off your moccasins. Wade in. All children in the wagons for the crossing.”

Before she knew it, Soft: Rain was lifted into a wagon that was just starting across. Mother and Aunt Kee waded into the river, only able to keep from tumbling into the swirling water by holding on to a rope someone had tied to the wagon. With the first jolt, Soft Rain fell into a stranger’s hands, hands that held her tightly during the crossing, keeping her from being tossed about. “You are safe, little one,” the stranger said.

But Soft Rain didn’t feel safe, and she didn’t look at the stranger who tried to comfort her. She
couldn’t bear to open her eyes, fearful of seeing the
uktena’s
bright crested forehead; and even more fearful of seeing Mother or Aunt Kee get carried away by the river. When she was at last helped from the wagon, she ran to Mother’s outstretched arms.

“D-Did you see the uktena?” she stammered.

“It is said the
uktena
lives in calmer waters,” Mother answered.

They slept beside the river. Soft Rain felt safe again, lying between Mother and Aunt Kee, listening to their gentle snoring.

On the afternoon of the third day, another call echoed along the line of Tsalagi. “The Tennessee, the Tennessee River,” the people cried. Soft Rain gasped when she saw the wide river and the odd-looking flat boats approaching the shore.

“I will wade across this river, too. I will not go on the white man’s boat!” Aunt Kee exclaimed.

The next day a dense fog rolled over the river. Until it lifted, no one could cross. Late in the day, when the walkers were able to board, Soft Rain took Aunt Kee’s hand in hers. “Stay with me,” she said. Aunt Kee gently squeezed Soft Rain’s fingers as they walked onto the boat together.

Soft Rain stepped cautiously over the planks until she reached a railing. Looking down at the water, she searched for the
uktena
. When she didn’t see
any horned monsters, she closed her eyes, not opening them again until she felt the boat stop. As she left the boat, she saw the chief giving money to the white man who had guided it. She wondered why they were paying to be taken where they didn’t want to go.

“Across rivers, valleys, and mountains,” the soldier with the shiny belt buckle had said. He was right. Since the river crossing, many days earlier, they had climbed several mountains—steep mountains. He hadn’t said that the wagons would get stuck in the streams or have to be pushed up the rocky hills, that the animals would be beaten when they couldn’t pull the load, and that the old people would have to trudge up the rough roads. He hadn’t said that the nights would be so cold.

While Mother and Aunt Kee made their packs for the day, Soft Rain’s gaze fell on two old ones, grandmothers, being carried away to be buried in shallow mountain graves. There was no time to bury the dead properly, for each morning they started walking early.

The old ones reminded Soft Rain of Grandmother. In her mind she saw Grandmother sitting by the hearth, telling stories and putting her hands on Soft Rain’s face. “So I can see you laughing,” she
always said. Soft Rain blinked away the tears, thinking that at least her grandmother would not die far away from home.

There was another mountain to walk down that day. On the winding road, Soft Rain could see the long line of Tsalagi they followed. She’d become used to hearing low cries and moans, but was startled by an eerie death wail coming from beside the trail. There she saw a young, barefoot woman kneeling by a small grave.

“They were just babies!” she screamed. “My babies! Was it my fault I had no milk for the little one?”

Mother and Aunt Kee hurried to her side. “How long have you been here?” Mother asked.

“The older one died four days ago,” she sobbed, “right after the baby was gone. He coughed and couldn’t breathe.” Her hand smoothed the hard earth of the little grave. “They were buried together. When the others left, I … I couldn’t leave my babies by themselves.”

Aunt Kee helped the woman stand, then whispered to her—words Soft Rain could not hear.

Mother gave her a small piece of meat with bread. “You can do nothing more here. Come with us,” she said, putting her arm around the young woman.

Soft Rain found a stick, which she stood upright between the stones on the grave. To
mark the place
, she thought. As they walked slowly away down the mountain, the mother kept turning back until the small grave was no longer in sight. Soft Rain took her trembling hand.

For a part of each day Soft Rain held the woman’s hand as they walked, hoping to be a comfort to her. Late one afternoon, while crossing a small stream, she heard the woman groan as she bathed her bleeding feet.

Pointing to a nearby wagon, Soft Rain said, “There are shoes in some of the boxes on the wagons.”

“When they forced us from our home, the soldiers did not give us time to dress properly, or take any belongings with us,” the woman cried. “I will take nothing from the
Unakas.”

“That’s what Aunt Kee said, until her moccasins wore through. I could see her toes. Mother finally persuaded her to take shoes. At first they were so stiff that they blistered her feet, but now she walks well in them.”

“Hmpf,” the woman grunted.

Though black clouds darkened the sky early, they walked on. When the rain began, Soft Rain was still holding the woman’s hand. The blanket
Mother threw over their shoulders kept them dry for a while.

Evening came and the rain continued. That night the four of them crowded into a tent they were given. It kept the rain off, but the ground was cold and wet. When morning came, there was more rain, and mud—days of trudging through mud, until at last the line slowed to a stop. They heard groans, murmurings, voices saying, “River. Another river to cross.”

T
he mother of the dead children started wailing as soon as she saw the river. Soft Rain covered her ears, trying not to hear. Finally she touched the young mother’s arm. “If you close your eyes, you won’t see the
uktena
. I do it every time we cross a river,” she explained.

“I’m not afraid of the
uktena
. I’m afraid because I have left my babies in a strange place. Where will their souls rest?”

Soft Rain had no answer. She thought about Green Fern, who had been terrified of going west. Where would
her
soul rest?

But Soft Rain did not close her eyes for this crossing. Instead she watched her feet as the group
walked on a bridge over the river. Back on land, they soon passed by the largest town they had seen, and spent another night in a strange place.

It was still raining in the morning. Soft Rain struggled to rise, to join the line of Tsalagi. As usual, some did not follow. Several had died during the night, and others were not able. Through the wetness, Soft Rain was sure she saw Old Roving Man sitting under a cedar tree. She cried out to him, “Old Roving Man!” But when the face of a stranger looked up at her, her mother said, “It isn’t your old friend, but another who cannot keep up.” Soft Rain, Mother, Aunt Kee, and the young mother walked on.

All day the rain soaked into their blankets. When darkness came, they could find no dry wood for building a fire. There would be no warm food or drink—just another night of cold rain, endless rain.

When Soft Rain saw a woman about to give birth under a wagon, she said, “We should give her our tent.”

She helped Aunt Kee put it up.

“I will try to help with the baby,” murmured the mother of the dead children as she crawled into the tent. “I hope she has milk for it.”

Through the night Soft Rain shivered under a
wagon, which only kept off the pelting rain. Once when she awoke, she heard a baby cry.

In the morning, both people and animals had to be urged to start. While she was swallowing bits of soggy bread, Soft Rain was startled by yells from a driver. “Push! Everyone who is able, help push,” came the call. “My wagon is stuck in a rut.”

Three men were able to push the wagon until the horses could gain a foothold. There were many more ruts that day and the next. At each call for help, the women and children hurried to empty supplies from the mired wagon while the sick and elderly who had been riding stood unsteadily with downcast eyes, waiting to ride again. Once the front wheels of a wagon collapsed. Soft Rain heard the driver curse as he was thrown into the mud.
No one will ride in that wagon again
, she thought.

Her feet grew heavier with each step as she sank to her ankles in the muddy tracks. And when she pulled her foot up without her moccasin, she screamed.

“Reach down in the mud and pull it out. Carry your moccasins,” her mother said.

For the rest of the day, cold, slimy mud covered Soft Rain’s feet. She was shaking all over when they came to a stream where everyone was cleaning
themselves and their clothing. As Soft Rain dipped her moccasins into the icy water, her teeth began to chatter. “I … I’m t-too cold and tired to keep walking,” she said.

“We are all too tired,” Aunt Kee said. “But what else can we do? We must keep moving.”

They plodded slowly on until Soft Rain said, “Listen.” A faint call echoed down the line of Tsalagi.

“What are they saying?” Mother asked.

Had Soft Rain heard correctly? “Shelter. They say there is shelter ahead,” she answered in disbelief.

They hurried as fast as their heavy feet could carry them until they came to an old barn with no doors.

A leader stood near the entrance. “We can sleep in here tonight. Please let children and the sick go first.”

Soft Rain watched the mother of the dead children carry in the newborn baby. Finally Soft Rain, Mother, and Aunt Kee entered. They found a place just inside, away from the rain and wind.

“It’s dry and warm!” Soft Rain sighed, pulling hay over her. She fell asleep right away.

In the morning the rain still fell. A fire glowed
in the middle of the barn. Soft Rain saw her mother walking away from it, holding something in her hand.

“Warm bread.” Mother smiled and handed a small, flat loaf to Soft Rain.

“Ummm,” Soft Rain murmured, holding the bread close to her nose, enjoying its warmth and smell. They hadn’t had warm bread since the rains had begun.

She had just begun to eat when she heard the steady beating of a drum. “Shhh,” someone said. “The chief speaks.”

The young chief stood near the fire. When the voices quieted, he began, “Many of you are ill and tired and need to rest. It has been decided that you may wait here to recover. Join the next group, which will arrive in two or three days. There is salt pork, flour, and corn for you. The rest of us must leave now.”

Mother said, “We are staying. I am weary, and Soft Rain needs to eat warm food and sleep.”

Aunt Kee nodded and began spreading the blankets out to dry.

Soft Rain ate the delicious bread slowly. She waved to the chief and the mother of the dead babies as they left.
I feel strange
, she thought.
I want to go and I want to stay
. She was sad to lose her new
friends, but her heart felt lighter and she was warm.
Will we have friends in the next group?
she wondered.
Who will be our chief?

The barn soon filled with the voices of the other women and children who had stayed behind. People began gathering around the fire. Someone shouted and started a chant:
“Yo-hoh-hee-yay.”
High sounds, low sounds. Some women strapped terrapin shells around their legs.
Stamp, stamp
—they began to dance. Soon there was a long line of dancers stepping and stomping. Aunt Kee clapped her hands, then pulled Soft Rain into the snakelike line.