The Beaded Moccasins (10 page)

I frown at the river. "There is something odd about the Cuyahoga," I say to him.

Grandfather nods. "It flows north. Most rivers flow south."

"Of course! How strange."

"Soon we'll go to Sequin, and you'll see why this river flows north. You can read, Granddaughter. You'll go with us and help us. Sequin will have treaties and declarations for us to look at." Grandfather sighs. "To white
men, the spoken word means even less than the written."

"Who is Sequin?" I ask with a sinking heart.

You can read.

"A fur trader. His trading post is downriver and near the great Erie lake."

"Sequin," I say uneasily. "But you can read. Why must I go?"

He looks disappointed. "This is your chance to help."

"Oh." I swallow hard. "Of course, Grandfather."

***

On the first really warm day, Grandfather announces that it's time to go to Sequin's. Grandfather, White Eyes, and two other men watch as I pack food into my carry pack. The only food we have left is that awful greasy pemmican.

As I press the pemmican into leather pouches, I think about my mother's flapjacks-crisp around the edges and soft in the middle. Dougal and I ate them by the platterful with bacon and maple syrup, and butter if we had any. We washed the flapjacks down with new milk. If it was a special occasion, Christmas or a birthday, we sipped a delicious, smoky-tasting tea called Pekoe that came all the way from China.

The boys no longer jump into the river every morning. They do look harder, impassive. Ever since I jumped into the river, I see grudging respect for me in their eyes. Now, as we leave, I see envy in their eyes, too. They're as bored with the cave as I am and are looking for adventure. I'm too embarrassed to meet their gaze for
long. Netawatwees Sachem is counting on me for help, and he's going to find out I can't help him because I can't read. They're all going to find out.

I carry the food and the men carry the furs they'll trade at Sequin's. We pick our way down the muddy cliff trail and alongside the river. We walk till noon before stopping to rest.

There are no leaves yet on the bare trees, barer still because the trunks are stripped of their bark. The deer are so hungry in early spring, they'll eat even bark to survive.

Water is flowing everywhere. It trickles from between the rocks hanging over the river. It drips down the cliff sides and lands on our heads. It gurgles down the path, filling our moccasins with cold mud. Streamlets overflow; tiny waterfalls tumble from rock to rock.

All the water flows into the swollen river. The Cuyahoga roars by in a tangle of broken branches and trees. Chunks of ice spin in the whirlpools. We make slow progress, stepping around mires and fallen logs.

We stop to rest again, to nibble on a few bites of pemmican and to wring out our moccasins. My stomach growls loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Now is the Sugar Maple Moon, but it's also known as the Starving Moon," Grandfather says. "We're grateful the winter is over, but there's still no food. Soon the Cuyahoga will give us fish big enough to catch. For now we can always eat bark."

Bark?

At dusk it begins to rain hard. The swollen river
edges closer and closer to the path. We find another cave, much smaller and deeper than ours. White Eyes steps in cautiously and comes out shaking his head. Even though I'm tired, I listen intently.

"
Makwa,
" he mutters. He holds up three fingers.

"A mother and her cubs?" Grandfather asks in Unami. "Are they still sound asleep? Will we disturb them if we stay the night?"

White Eyes shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "They are sound asleep for now, Father-in-law."

"Three bears?" I ask. "In the cave?"

Grandfather nods and replies in English. "We will have a cold camp and share their cave for the night." They all look at me. "The rain comes down harder now and my granddaughter is tired."

White Eyes looks at him as though he's gone mad.

We step slowly inside. I can't see the bears, but I hear the even breathing of the mother and her cubs, still deep in hibernation. The slow, rhythmic breathing rumbling out of the mother bear's chest throbs like a great beating heart. One of the cubs has a snore like a whistle; the other sounds just like its mother only higher in pitch.

I can smell them, too. The mother has a sharp, sour smell, so that sweet-as-honey scent must come from the cubs. The bears give off heat from their corner of the cave. It's almost like having a fire.

When my eyes adjust to the gloom, I can see them, three balls of inky black against the dark cave wall.

We all lie down warily and wait for sleep to come. I unpack a blanket and pretend I'm one of the bear cubs,
snug against my mother's fur. I fall asleep almost instantly.

In the morning we make haste to leave. Morning sunbeams light up the cave as the bear family slumbers on. The mother is a huge black bear, and her cubs look to be about the size of human babies.

What I see makes my hair stand on end.

"One of the cubs is nursing-it's awake!" I whisper.

"They nurse while asleep," Grandfather explains. "We haven't disturbed them."

"More importantly, Grandfather, they haven't disturbed us."

He has brought men who can speak English on this trip to Sequin's. They all laugh softly at my little joke.

The mother bear snorts and we charge out of the cave.

***

Later this morning I can scarcely believe my good fortune. There, resting on a tree branch as though God in all His wisdom meant for only me to find it, is a bluebird feather. It glows as blue as an October sky.

I brush the feather against my cheeks. "Thank you, thank you," I murmur. Whom do I thank? God, for allowing me to find it? The bluebird, for leaving a tail feather behind? Or myself, for having the patience and courage to believe in my own promise? A promise delayed is not a promise denied. I will go home someday.

I place the feather lovingly in my carry pack as far as possible from the greasy pemmican.

By late afternoon on the third day I see a curl of
smoke far ahead on the horizon. The Cuyahoga straightens out and widens as we walk closer to the Lac du Chat. The ice chunks are farther apart, but still spinning around and around.

Soon my nostrils fill with the musky smell of marine life-the sand, the fish, the vegetation on shore. Seagulls hang almost motionless in the sky, pushing against a brisk wind. Long-legged water birds-terns and plovers-pick their way delicately in the shallows, looking for food.

On the horizon the smoke curl becomes a chimney. A bit later the chimney becomes a rooftop and finally a cabin.

I stop and think for a moment. "Bit by bit, we've been walking downhill," I say. "All this time. Is that why the river flows north? It flows downhill toward the lake?"

Grandfather nods. "You've thought it out for yourself," he says proudly.

Sequin's cabin and trading post is on the eastern shore of the river just where it meets the lake. The cabin has a wraparound porch and sits on a beach of fine white sand.

The Lac du Chat stretches far to the north, as far as I can see. The horizon is a dark-blue smudge where the sky, low-lying clouds, and water meld together.

On summer days back home Constance and I used to wrap corn bread and apples in a clean napkin and spend the day at Pine Creek Point or Fairfield Beach. I remember gazing at the Sound, unable to understand how there could be so much water in the world.

Lac du Chat looks like the Atlantic, or at least Long Island Sound. Waves crash to the shore, as big as ocean waves. They drag the pebbles away from the beach with a grating sound as the waterbirds chase the retreating surf, looking for clams and fingerlings washed up on shore.

I taste the water. It
is
fresh, fresh and cold.

"May I stay out here, Grandfather? To look at the lake?"

"We need your help."

As we enter the cabin, my heart is pounding, and not just because I can't read. The whole cabin reminds me of home! While the men talk, my gaze darts everywhere, eager to find things I remember. Comfortable chairs are arranged around the fireplace; the fire crackles with an invitation to sit and rest a spell, warm the hands and feet. Pretty jars and brass lamps decorate the mantelpiece. A dining table and matching chairs grace the far corner. From the doorway I spy a second room with a fancy carved bed, a lace coverlet, and fluffy pillows.

Then I notice the dirt. Next to the fireplace muddy shoes give off steam and stink of feet. Dirty bowls and silverware clutter the furniture. Here and there, grimy clothes have drifted and piled like snow. Clinging to the spotty windows are cobwebs and caramel-colored spider-egg sacs. In the far corner the beautifully carved table is covered with cook pots and fly-blown crockery.

As soon as I see the dirt, I know Sequin doesn't have a wife.

On the other side of the room is his merchandise. He '
must do a brisk business in trade, I reckon. I've seen the objects the Delaware treasure, and he has just the sort of brightly colored finished goods they like. Papers of needles and pins, and glass jars full of bright candy crowd the countertop. Spools of thread, bolts of colored cloth, copper kettles, jewelry, brushes and combs, jugs of rum-anything the Indians might want.

I pounce on a little paper-covered packet sitting on a shelf I bring it to my nose and take a deep sniff Soap! Soap that smells like roses! I sniff and sniff until I can't smell it anymore.

Sequin's thick dark hair and beard remind me of the black bears in the cave. Standing behind the counter, he stares at me in surprise as I smell the soap, then motions me to come forward. As I walk toward the counter, he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a piece of paper.

First he bows. "François Sequin, mademoiselle," he says.

My first impulse is to curtsy, but I stop myself. What would my parents think of me, showing respect to a dirty Frenchy! A people we've been at war with for going on seven years!

"Mary Caroline Campbell," I say stiffly.

"Come! You tell men!" he shouts at me.

I glance at Grandfather, who nods to me and smiles.
What will he do when he finds out I've lied to him about reading?
I think in panic.
Maybe I'll tell him I've forgotten how.

Sequin hands me an official-looking document. The red wax seal is broken; the ink on the paper is in great
flourishes and curlicues. There are drawings of lions and fleurs-de-lis in the four corners.

The squiggly lines mean absolutely nothing. My hands are shaking and my mouth is dry. "I can't read this," I whisper to Grandfather. "I'm sorry."

He looks shocked; then his eyes blaze in anger.

Sequin snatches the paper from my hands.

"
Tu parles français?'
he shouts at me. "Speak French, little one?"

He turns into a watery blur as I shake my head.

Sequin stabs the paper with a grimy finger.

"Netawatwees Sachem. French king say welcome," he shouts. "Ohio French land. French king. French Sequin. Trade here only."

"Of course!" Relief floods over me. "This writing is in French, Grandfather. I-I can't read French."

"It say..." Sequin points to the document. "Welcome to king's land. Welcome. Trade with Sequin only. French king. French Ohio. French goods. French Sequin."

"This isn't French land," I retort. "My father says this land belongs to us. This is the Western Reserve. It was reserved by King Charles II almost one hundred years ago. This is British land."

Sequin looks enraged. "
Non!
French land! French king! French Sequin! France! France! France!" he shouts. Every time he shouts "France!" Sequin pounds the countertop so hard, he makes the bar of soap and glass candy jars jump.

"Yes," Grandfather says softly. "We trade only with you." He points to the lake outside. "French lake, too."

"
Oui!
Sequin's mouth stretches into a toothless smile. "Lac du Chat. French land. French king. French goods. French Sequin."

The men put their peltry on the counter. They trade them for cloth, kettles, gunpowder, and shot. White Eyes points to a jug of rum on a top shelf, but Grandfather snarls at him before Sequin can reach for it. White Eyes looks sheepish and shakes his head. Sequin just shrugs his shoulders.

Sequin reaches into a glass candy jar and hands me a bright-red cinnamon stick. When he smiles at me, I notice he has dried tobacco juice in the creases of his lips and bits of moldy food in his beard. He smells just like that mother bear back in the cave.

"Thank you, sir." I take the cinnamon stick quickly. Despite my haste, he's left grimy fingerprints all over it.

"
Merci
" Grandfather says. "
Au revoir, Monsieur Sequin
" He turns to leave.

"You speak French?" I shout in amazement, tagging at his heels. "French
and
English?"

"
Attendez, Sachem des Indiens
" Sequin calls out. "
Attendez, s'il vous plaît
"

We turn around. Sequin starts at my toes and, taking his time, allows his eyes to linger here and there as he looks at me all the way up to my hair. As he licks his slobbery grin, I step backward and backward again.

Sequin places three shiny new muskets on the counter.

"
Belle jeune fille
" he says, nodding at me. He pats the muskets with one hand and points toward me with the other.

"
Non,
" Grandfather says. "She's my granddaughter.
Elle est ma petite-fille, Monsieur Sequin.
"

Sequin puts another musket on the counter and looks at him expectantly.

"
Non, monsieur
" Grandfather says politely. "My granddaughter,
ma petite-fille
"

Sequin points to the rum and looks at White Eyes.

"
Non,
" Grandfather says quickly. "
Au revoir, monsieur?

Sequin shrugs his shoulders and puts the muskets back on the shelf behind him.

"
C'est dommage, mais c'est la vie.
This is life, no?
Bon voyage, Netawatwees, Sachem des Indiens.
"