The Beaded Moccasins (2 page)

"They'll notice if you can't speak French or Spanish."

Dougal studies the map intently, tracing the river systems with his index finger. But I know he's trying to think of a reply.

Finally he does. "I'll pretend I can't talk."

"Can't talk?"

"I was crossing the mountains and the biggest snake in the world attacked me. No one knows about the snake because no one has ever been in those mountains before except me? And he was going for my neck, but I turned just in time and he bit me right on the tongue so now I can't talk. A western mountain snake-I'll be known as the Silent Trapper."

I can't resist. "And which mountain snake is that-the serpent on the mount?"

"Awww."

I study the map. The solid black lines that mean rivers dip and curve like purple martins flying after mosquitoes. Near the French and Spanish rivers are little drawings of bald monks, Indians with tomahawks and canoes, buffalo, bears, wildcats, deer, and herds of wild horses. Thicker lines lie next to them. The short, thick lines follow the twists and turns the river lines take. I know these short lines are the names of the rivers. I know they're letters strung together to make words.

"What does this one say?" I point to another river line.

"Susquehanna," Dougal says importantly. "That's our river, right here in Pennsylvania. See?" He traces the
river line with his finger. "But the trapping's no good here anymore. The Susquehanna's trapped out. Pennsylvania's good for nothing but farming now."

"How do you know the Mississippi isn't trapped out?"

"Because it isn't, Mary!" he says impatiently. "And even if it is, I'll just find another river even farther west. There must be hundreds of rivers out west. I'll ask when I get there."

"The Silent Trapper asking about rivers?"

He rolls up the map. "Why am I wasting my time talking to a girl? Girls wouldn't give a pig's eye for westering."

"Westering." I spit the word out like a rotten berry. "This is what you've been doing all day, isn't it? Hiding in the woods and mooning over this map. You're so lazy."

"No, I haven't." But Dougal won't meet my eyes, so I know I've guessed the truth.

Westering means fresh starts and new beginnings. Any problem can be solved by heading west, any itch can be scratched by heading west. At least that's what menfolk think.

My grandfather must have had that same restless, dreamy look in his eyes when he tore my grandmother away from Scotland to sail west across the Atlantic to the colonies.

What if my father gets that look in his eyes again? I imagine him marching across this very map with Dougal and my grandfather in his wake-west through
the French lands, then west again to the Spanish lands of papist California. Finally, there the Campbell men stand on the edge of the Pacific, their pant cuffs wet, scowling at the ocean because there's no more west to go to.

Mission monks raise a rumpus and try to shoo the Campbell men away with the hems of their black robes, now wet and rimed salt white from the ocean waves.

I laugh, and Dougal looks at me curiously.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"California."

"California rivers," Dougal exclaims. He leans closer and studies the western edge of the map.

"I want to go to Mrs. Appleby's Dame School," I say in a small voice. I have never said this out loud before. "Do you remember my best friend, Constance Farnsworth? We were going to start school together. I want to leave Pennsylvania and go home. I want to live with Grandfather in his pretty house on the town square.

"And when I grow up, I want to live in a real house with flower gardens and a second floor and lace tablecloths and napkins and polished furniture and a staircase and neighbors who shout 'Good morning' from their side of the fence. I want to learn to read and write and ride in a two-horse carriage to church and have elegant tea parties in the afternoons."

Dougal snorts. "Girls."

The black river lines get bigger; they blur and fill in with water.

"Don't cry, Mary. You'll see Connecticut again someday."

"No I won't," I sob bitterly. "I'll never see Connecticut again, Dougal."

***

When Dougal and my father are snoring in their beds, I lie awake. Farthest from the fireplace, my bed and I are hidden within deep shadows. Every night since the end of April, I have stayed awake, watching my mother sit by the fire and stitch my birthday dress.

I lie absolutely motionless, scarcely breathing, because she'd say, "Hush, Mary dear, and go to sleep" if she knew I was watching. The half-moon curve of her face, arms, and hands is lit up by the firelight.

Before we left Connecticut, she packed away a bolt of bright-blue cloth, the same color as my eyes. So close to the coals, the blue cloth glows almost pink.

She puts the dress down in her lap and rubs her eyes. Suddenly she looks tired and sad. My mother has many friends in Fairfield. Her sister lives there, too, my clever and funny Aunt Orpah, whom we may never see again.

"Hush, Mary dear, and go to sleep."

"I didn't say anything."

"Hush now."

As I roll over, I wonder, How did she know I was awake?

I
T'S MY BIRTHDAY
, but I don't
feel
twelve. I roll over in bed and wait for any change. No, I still feel like eleven.

I turn my head to the sound of my father's feet touching the floor. It's almost dawn and he's going to our neighbors' farm a good two miles upriver. The Stewarts are a young couple with a two-year-old named Sammy. Mr. Stewart and my father are going deer hunting together.

My father shuffles around the cabin, stubbing his toes on bench legs and knocking his knees on barrels, cursing under his breath. I want to ask him when he'll be back, just to see if he'll wish me a happy birthday. But he's in such a foul temper that I stay hushed.

When he opens the door, a slice of lemon-yellow dawn lights up his profile. And then he's gone.

Soon after, my mother staggers in from the barn with
a bucket of new milk in each hand. She's always the last one to retire at night and the first one to awaken in the morning. Ma sets the kettle on for tea and places corn bread on the table.

"Mary, it's daybreak."

It's light enough now to see my brand-new birthday dress draped across the chair back-with a lacy, store-bought chemise on the seat. I slip the chemise and dress over my head, and they fit perfectly. I tie my lace collar, the one from Flanders, around my neck. As I whirl around, pretending to be surprised, I admire the deep flounce of the skirt. I lift the hem and see a bit of frothy lace at my calf.

"Oh, they're beautiful. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

My mother wags her finger at me. "You knew all about this dress, young lady. You've been watching me when you should be asleep. But I've managed to salvage a few surprises for you."

"The chemise is a surprise. It's from Fairfield?"

"It's from Paris."

I am flummoxed. "France?" Never have I had anything so elegant and pretty. Or expensive.

My mother's mouth is a tight, thin line again, but her eyes are twinkling. "So you were surprised. You're becoming a young lady. Young ladies need pretty things." She points to the table.

At my place is a birthday cake. I smell cinnamon, maple syrup, and the dried apples my mother brought all the way from Fairfield.

"It smells delicious."

She cuts a huge slice of birthday cake and places it in a napkin. "Cake for breakfast?" I ask.

"Surprise."

***

I sit in our front yard and take huge, un-young-lady-like bites of cake. Tiny white violets have filled in the nooks and crannies between the grass blades like a slight spring snowfall. When the sun comes up red over the Susquehanna, it tints the white violets a deep, glowing pink.

Sunlight dapples the wavelets as though someone had scattered gold coins across the river.

What would I do with those gold coins? I'd spend them on dolls more beautiful than princesses. I'd buy delicate china cups and saucers for tea parties. I'd have more candy than at a dozen Christmases, more fancy clothes than in a queen's closet.

My bare feet are cold against the earth, but the spring sunshine glows warm on my face and hands. I remind myself sternly that eleven is much too old to be this excited about a birthday.

And yet ... the air is soft, my dress is new, my chemise is from Paris, my lips still taste of cinnamon. This is my day-fresh, young, and full of promise.

A
thunk
on the side porch makes me turn my head. My mother is heaving the butter churn onto the rough-hewn planks.

"Mary, take off that new dress and put on your old brown one. The butterfat will ruin it."

I stare at her in horror. "But this is my birthday—"

"Yes, but milk won't churn itself, especially once the sun gets hot. Hurry, or all we'll have is cream for your labors. You'll want butter for your birthday dinner, won't you?"

I sit on the side porch in the shade, punching the churn stick up and down, up and down, in the butter churn. Already my shoulders hurt and I'm hot and sweaty. My sunbonnet is no relief.

Dougal isn't even awake yet. He's here to protect us, and his lazy tail isn't even out of bed yet! Of course he's peevish because he's not deer hunting with the men.

"Not so hard at first, Mary dear. You'll slosh the milk right out of the churn. As the milk turns to butter, you'll be thankful you saved your strength."

Even my eyes are hot, I'm so angry. "Why does Dougal get to lie abed?" I shout. "It's not to be borne!"

"You'll be sorry you wore that new dress, young lady."

I shove the churn stick down hard, and sure enough, milk leaps out of the churn and splatters onto the porch and my new dress. Lady Grey, her kittens, and a mob of other barn cats gather round to share in the bounty.

"Mary," my mother says, "your father and I were up before dawn. He so you'll have meat on your plate; and I so you'll have milk for your tea. We all work very hard."

"And Dougal?"

"You leave Dougal to me. Churning, candlemaking, wool carding and spinning, weaving and sewing, cooking, sweeping, washing and cleaning, preserving, and
taking care of children: That is what young ladies need to learn to do. You'll get married someday, and your husband will expect you to do them all."

"I already know how to do them all!" I shout.

"Hush up," Dougal mutters from his bed.

"You hush up, Silent Trapper!" I scream so loud my throat feels like bursting.

An even larger crescent of barn cats is at my feet, licking more milk that has sloshed out of the churn. I see my life in front of me: an endless round of churning, carding, spinning, weaving, sewing, cooking, cleaning, childbirthing and rearing, and following a westering husband even farther away from Connecticut.

I scream, "I don't care if we don't have butter!"

I fling the stick and churn cap out into the side yard. The cats crouch low but still lick up the milk, faster now. They watch me with wary yellow eyes, ready to spring out of my way.

"I can't be like you," I shout. "You can't even read and you live in a one-room cabin in the wilderness. I can't grow up to be you-I'll die!"

Her face turns as white as the milk; her hands fly to her cheeks as though I've slapped her.

We stare at each other for a moment.

"I can't be like you," I repeat through clenched teeth. "You're like one of our cows: dim, dull, and stupid. And you've always loved Dougal more than me."

She just stares.

Strawberries, I think, my heart in my throat.

I run in the front door as Dougal rolls over in bed.

"Where do you think you're going? And where's my breakfast?"

"The pasture," I whisper fiercely. I pull the hair at the top of his head and pretend to scalp him. "Where the Indians are. Get your own breakfast."

His eyes widen. "What Indians?"

"You're so stupid!" I scream at him. "You're the stupidest boy who ever lived!"

I snatch the rose bowl from the table and run outdoors.

My mother is picking up the churn stick as I run past. Waves of barn cats jump from my path like the parting of the Red Sea.

I don't even look at her as I jump over the fence and run to the pasture.

***

It's a beautiful spring day. The sort of day when I can imagine the blue, green, and golden days extending forward forever.

Our five cattle and the three sheep stand around in a dumb-as-dirt clump, the cows chewing their cuds. As I pant for breath, the livestock gaze at me blankly. One by one they return to grazing. With their noses and hoofs they crush the strawberries, filling the air with a delicately sweet tang.

The sun is already hot. I remove my sunbonnet and lift my long hair; the breeze off the river is delightfully cool against my neck.

The wild strawberries cover the back side of the pasture, which is so far from our cabin that all I can see of it is smoke rolling lazily from the chimney.

The wild strawberries are tiny and pungent-their taste explodes in my mouth like a musket firing. In no time my tongue feels burny and sour from the juice. The jagged strawberry leaves grow close to the earth, and the tiny berries hide underneath them as shy as deer. I stay close to the ground, crawling along on my hands and knees (watching out for cow pies, of course).

A slice of birthday cake, no matter how huge, is no proper breakfast; I'm so hungry, I eat half the berries I pick.

The rose bowl came all the way from Scotland. My grandmother gave it to my mother the day Dougal was born. The bowl has red roses and dark-green leaves painted in the bottom. Strawberries fill the bowl to the ends of the roses. The tips of the painted leaves are still showing. The delicious smell, the sunshine, and the thought of strawberries with fresh cream for our pudding make my mouth water.

I'll give my mother the strawberries, I decide. That will make her happy. She'll forget all about the fight.

We'll have wild strawberries and cream with our midday meal. That's even better than butter. I'll give her strawberries in the pretty rose bowl. The cream will have risen to the top of the churn by my return. She'll have fresh cream, wild strawberries, and an "I'm sorry" whispered in her ear.