The Beaded Moccasins (7 page)

What's the use of a pretty, clean river if there's no one to admire its beauty? I try to imagine what the river must be thinking, if this really is the very first time people have ever gone swimming in it.

After a long swim I trudge up the cliff trail with everyone else. The small children giggle and point at my white stomach and backside. Their parents smile at them, happy to see their children laughing.

I run to untie Mrs. Stewart's backpack, but Netawatwees Sachem takes my arm and draws me to him.

"But Grandfather—"

"Don't talk to her again."

"But—"

"Not again," he says sternly. "She's nothing to you."

"But she's—"

"Tonn," Hepte says quickly. She presses a cooking pot into my hands.

Netawatwees Sachem says, "Run down the cliff trail for water. To mix with our cornmeal. Hurry, Granddaughter."

I reach for my dress and hurry down the cliff trail. I find a place upriver where the water is as clean as on the first day of Creation. I fill our cooking pot.

***

As the day ends, we sit on the lip of the cave, dangling our feet against the sheer rock wall.

Since we left the Allegheny, a girl about my age has tried to make friends with me. Time and again I've awakened at dawn to a little present by my shoulder—a pretty rock, a redbird feather, a lump of maple sugar. She keeps looking at me, but I won't meet her eyes. I haven't had a friend since Constance, and I don't want to disturb that memory, or Fairfield's.

Now this girl sits next to me and talks and talks-fast, as though I'm supposed to understand her.

"I don't know what you're saying," I tell her. "I don't even know your name. I can't be your friend."

"Her name is Kolachuisen," Grandfather says.

"Kola chewy sen," I repeat as the girl laughs and claps her hands. "What does her name mean, Grandfather?"

"Beautiful Bluebird."

"A bluebird!"

I clamp my hands over my eyes. I'd seen a bluebird the day before Sammy was killed. His feathers were the same color as my eyes and my birthday dress, and I'd made myself a foolish promise: I will see the Campbells again someday.

I can't bear to look at Kolachuisen. The tattered promise hurts too much.

When I finally peel my hands away from my eyes, she's gone.

The sunset turns the Cuyahoga to a ribbon of gold. We all sit and watch the sun go down. Even Mrs. Stewart is sitting with the group. Someone has untied her backpack for her.

The water shines so prettily that for the first time in a long time, I feel ... not happy, exactly, but grateful to live, to be alive and to enjoy this sunset. It feels good to have a home again, even if it's just a cave.

The sun goes down and we go into our new home.

After our supper we sit in front of our family fires. We are all clean, cool, and well fed. Everyone is pointing at the flames and at me. Hepte has given me a comb, and I am trying to comb the tangles out of my hair.

"Granddaughter," Netawatwees Sachem says, "they are saying how fortunate we are to have someone with hair as red as the flames living among us. When it is cold this winter, they will look at your hair and feel warmer."

I look into our family fire and remember. Our hearth in Fairfield was huge, with separate compartments for roasting meats, baking breads, and simmering stews. We
each had our own hearth chair. Mine was just a bench until my ninth birthday, when Pa presented me with my very own rocking chair that he had made.

"You'll rock your own babes to sleep in that chair, soon enough, Mary," he said. "Solid oak, made to last."

"Thank you, Pa. Thank you," I said to him.

Is my rocking chair just ashes now?

Chickadee crawls into my lap and puts her arms round my neck. Her hug smells faintly of mint and pepper. She has that sharp, almost sweet smell of clean water, too. I rock her in my arms, as though she's one of my own babes.

"I'm glad you're alive, Chickadee," I whisper in her ear. "God didn't choose me over you. That means my prayer was answered; I'll go home someday."

"
Kamis,
" she shouts. "
Kamis, kamis.
"

"Chickadee is saying 'sister, sister,'" Grandfather explains.

Kamis
means "sister,"
tonn
means "daughter." Will anyone except Mrs. Stewart ever call me Mary again?

I comb Chickadee's hair. The firelight shines darkly in her long black locks like sunlight on a raven's wings.

I braid her hair. On the other side of the family fire Hepte and White Eyes are smiling at us. Hepte gives me leather thongs for tying Chickadee's braids at the ends.

When Chickadee falls asleep in my lap, Hepte moves her to one of the blankets. Hepte sits behind me and combs my hair. It feels good, the comb dragging across my itchy scalp.

She talks softly to me. The way her voice goes up and
down, she must be telling me a story, but of course I don't understand. My eyelids start to droop. Her voice flows like the river's current, forward then stopping, forward then stopping, like water lapping against the shore.

T
HE TREES FAR BELOW
in the gorge slowly change color. The little round beech leaves turn to gold coins. The oaks and maples turn yellow, then orange, then red. Ash trees become as purple as plums, and the black-walnut leaves turn the same burnt-orange color as pumpkin pie.

The sparkling blue sky can only mean October.

It is beautiful ... but Pastor Mainwood taught us that the wilderness is the Devil's domain. He said Satan is lurking, here in these forests as old as Eden, to tempt us with forbidden fruit. A city, a town, a village, a settlement, a farm, a claim-means that Satan has been driven from our midst.

He's been driven west, come to think of it.

These Delaware are as much at home in the gorge as the birds and animals. I wonder if I'll ever feel that way,
no matter how long I remain in captivity. Or will I always be chary of Satan, watching out of the corner of my eye for his dark shape in the lush undergrowth?

Soon the trees' branches droop, burdened by the thousands of birds that have come to the gorge. Netawatwees Sachem says they're calling to each other by kind for the long trip south. Their calling is so loud, I can still hear them when I cover my ears. Flock by flock, great waves of birds disappear into the southern sky, taking their birdsong with them.

As the first of the winter storms blows in, the wind and rain pull all the leaves off the trees. We are left with an autumn-gold rug on the forest floor, cold wind, gray sky, bare branches, and a stark view of the river.

We awake one cold morning to snow in the gorge. The branches fill up again, with the wet snow of late autumn. The days grow colder and shorter, and the river, swollen with autumn rain and melting early snow, roars in our ears all day and all night.

Then one morning we awake to silence. The river is iced over. The long winter has begun.

We sit on stone-cold floors and lean against stone-cold walls. As our cave faces west, the westerly winds push their way inside and try to snatch the family fires away.

In Connecticut winter was always a time for fun with friends. Skating on Long Island Sound, tobogganing, rides in our neighbor's sleigh, counting redbirds, making twelve snow Apostles in the front yard every December; then long walks next to the hedgerows between the
fields. Afterward we'd sit in front of a cheery fire to pop corn and drink hot apple cider. The snow-laden wind would howl outside and set the windowpanes to rattling, but snug inside our house I'd feel safe and warm.

In the cave, though, winter is something to survive. Just to get through the day is an accomplishment. The Delaware sit it out and wait patiently for spring. We sit in darkness, huddled in animal skins with only our feet and shins warmed by the fire. Like bears, everyone tries to sleep to make the time go by.

We eat pemmican-a greasy paste made from bits of meat, dried berries, and animal fat. It tastes awful and makes my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.

Finally we're eating the food we brought from the village on the Allegheny. We dip corn meal out of my carry pack and mix it with the water from melting icicles. Hepte fries it on hot stones rubbed with deer fat.

As the snow deepens, we build a snow wall across the mouth of the cave. The wall does a fair job of keeping the wind out.

Each afternoon the women and girls leave the cave to gather firewood. Sometimes White Eyes lends me his axe. I learn to chop fallen trees into usable logs.

As kindling becomes scarce, we have to walk farther and farther from the cave to find it.

As cold as it is in the cave, it's even colder outside looking for wood. The frigid wind blows down the gorge all day and all night. We scurry back at dusk with stacks of kindling strapped to our backs and fallen branches in our arms.

At night all two hundred of us sit around the fires, our steamy breath mingling with the rising smoke. The cave walls and ceiling have turned smudgy black. When someone tells a story, he or she draws pictures on the wall by scraping away the soot with a stick. The pictures help me understand the words.

One night when Netawatwees Sachem and I are the only ones awake, I ask him to tell the story about the animals as big as the hills. I draw a picture of an elephant on the wall. "You said you had a story, Grandfather," I remind him.

"Yes, the story about the
yah-qua-whee
" he says, pointing to my drawing of the elephant.

"The
yah-
who? That's an elephant."

His eyes widen in surprise. "You have a word for this animal?"

"Elephants. They live in Africa."

"They're still alive?" he exclaims. "You've seen one?"

"I've never seen one. They're alive, though."

He leans forward. "Their fur is as thick as a bear's, and each hair is as long as a child's arm?"

"No, no fur. Africa's hot. It's across the ocean. Their skin is wrinkled and gray." Sort of like your skin, I want to say, but of course I don't.

"This changes the story," he says softly. His eyes are still wide in surprise. "This changes everything."

"Tell me the story, Grandfather."

"A long time ago, when the Creator, Kishelemukong, still walked in our gardens to admire the corn—"

"Kettle who?"

"Kishelemukong. He created us with his thoughts."

Now it's my turn to be surprised. "God?"

"As I was saying, when Kishelemukong walked in our gardens, there were the
yah-qua-whee.
The four elements-the earth, the plants, the animals, and the People-have all lived in careful balance with each other since the first days.

"But the
yah-qua-whee
did not live in careful balance with the People. They were huge and traveled in vast herds like the birds. We could hear those herds from far away, like distant thunder. They trampled our fields and crushed our corn. They roared through our villages, killing many of the People and destroying our dwellings.

"Life was harder then because it was so much colder than now. From our villages we could see ice fields as wide as the Sun's Salt Sea and as tall as mountains. It was always winter. This is why the
yah-qua-whee
needed their thick fur.

"The
yah-qua-whee
did not live in careful balance with their animal neighbors, either. They crushed burrows with sleeping animals inside and knocked over trees filled with bird nests.

"For our benefit and for the benefit of the animals, the People decided to kill all the
yah-qua-whee.
We dug huge pitfalls in the earth and hid the deep holes by weaving branches into a false floor and scattering leaves on top. Brandishing fire sticks, the People drove the
yah-qua-whee
into the deep pits. As the screaming
yah-qua-whee
were crushed against each other, their blood and flesh became soil as the pitfalls leveled out.

"When there were no
yah-qua-whee
left, the People remembered how much we needed them. One animal as big as the hills could feed an entire village for the winter. Their hides were tough enough for tents, their fur soft enough for blankets. Their great tusks were good for jewelry, and their bones were good for making tools to dig in the earth and plant our gardens.

"The People were sad. We had total victory over an enemy, but we needed that enemy. Kishelemukong was also sad, because the People had made a decision only Kishelemukong should make. He stopped walking in our gardens from that time on. No one has heard or seen Kishelemukong since.

"Maybe the animals were also sad. Who would knock the logs aside so the birds and bears could eat the insects hiding under them? Who else but the
yah-qua-whee
were strong enough, and big enough, to make the eastbound and westbound forest trails for all the animals to share? Who else would dig up the earth with their tusks while looking for roots, so the seeds could grow in the softened earth?

"That summer, as a sign to show us that we were forgiven, Kishelemukong caused the cranberries to grow from the
yah-qua-whee
pitfalls. Cranberries are as red as blood to remind us of the slaughtered
yah-qua-whee.
Like the
yah-qua-whee
the berries are good for many things: for medicine, for food, for dyes.

"The cranberries remind us that there is no such thing as total victory, and that we are not Kishelemukong. The
yah-qua-whee,
like everything else, deserved to live."

"But the elephants, Grandfather."

"Yes." He leans forward. "There are people in this Africa? And animals?"

"A lot of people and a lot of animals."

"But they didn't kill the
yah-qua-whee.
Tell me, are there cranberries in Africa?"

He holds his breath, waiting for my answer.

"I don't think so."

Netawatwees Sachem claps his hands and laughs like a child. "Then they live. The
yah-qua-whee
live!"

"How did you learn to speak English so well, Grandfather?"

He waves his hand impatiently. "That's another story. Go to sleep," he orders. "I must think about these
yah-qua-whee
of Africa. They live," he mutters to himself "This changes everything."