Indian Captive (10 page)

She heard the man’s loud snoring from the bunk against the wall. She heard the booming sounds that never, never stopped. She heard the sounds of voices coming from the adjoining rooms. She thought of early morning at home and she wondered if the Indians had a wash basin. Did they never wash their faces? Never comb their hair and put on fresh, clean clothing? Did they always sleep in their clothes at night?

A wailing cry from somewhere behind gave her a start. Swiftly she turned to look. A flat board was hanging by a strap to the bunk pole. On the board a brown Indian baby was fastened with wide bands of embroidered cloth. Its hands were covered up and only its head could be seen. The sharp memory of her baby brother came to Molly and quickly she turned away.

The woman threw a log on the fire. She pointed out the door and said a few low words. The deerskin flap was fastened back. Molly stepped out into the sun. The air felt clean and cool after the smell of smoke within.
Ka-doom! Ka-doom!
The booming noise was near at hand. Molly looked to see what it was.

Beside the lodge door the two sisters were pounding corn. In front of all the lodges roundabout, Indian women were pounding corn and the booming sounds made a low, deep chorus. In oaken logs hollowed out to form deep holes or mortars, they pounded corn with heavy wooden pounders. The grains of corn had been boiled in lye water to loosen the hulls, then sifted and dried. Now they lay on the round bottoms of the mortars and were pounded until they were ground into meal.

It made Molly think of the corn at home. Long ago her father had rigged up a mortar, with a pestle attached to the end of a bent-over sapling. The swinging branch helped to lift the heavy pestle up and down. But they had not used it for long. After Ned Haskins started his mill on Conewago Creek, it was easier to pile the bags of corn on Old Barney’s back and ride thirty miles to mill to have it ground. Yes, it had been a long time since Molly had seen corn ground to meal in a mortar.

Up and down, swirling round, up and down the pounders went. Molly watched in fascination. The booming sound was a pleasant tune now in her ears, as she watched the meal being ground finer and finer. The plain sister was the first to lay down her pounder. She brought out a long, wooden mixing-trough and a sieve basket. She set them down on the ground beside her mortar. Then she brought water in a bark water vessel.

“Oh, corn-pone!” exclaimed Molly, clapping her hands. “You’re going to make corn-pone—the way Ma makes it at home!”

The cross sister frowned at the girl as she heard her speak. Leaving her work, she took up a piece of fire wood and gesticulated. She pointed to the wood-pile which was getting low. She waved her arm toward a grove of trees behind the lodge. With a volley of scolding words she made Molly understand she wanted her to go to the grove and pick up wood.

Molly wanted to see the corn-meal mixed and made into cakes. She wanted, more than anything else in the world, to see cakes of yellow corn-pone lying tilted on a board in front of a fire, burning hot. The kind sister was still busily pounding. She did not once look up. Molly stood, uncertain, for a moment…

But a kick, a sturdy kick on the shins from the cross Indian woman, sent her flying off on the path to the woods. She held her hand down to the bruise to ease its pain. She must get wood and bring it back. Somehow she must find wood to burn, wood, wood, she must find wood. Unconsciously she repeated to herself the word in Indian. The woman had said it over so often, she could not forget its sound or meaning. The word for “wood” was the first Indian word that she learned and she learned it because of a kick.

In the thicket at the edge of the deep woods she looked about on all sides. She stumbled over dead branches lying on the ground, but never thought to pick them up. She had a vague idea that somewhere she would come on a neat pile of cord-wood, piled up the way Pa piled it at home. But what could she do if she found it? Four-foot logs would be too heavy to carry and she could not split or chop them shorter, without a hatchet or an ax.

Then she saw a patch of white on the ground in the distance. Eagerly she ran ahead, to find blood-root in full bloom! A patch of white blood-root blooming in the woods, as pretty a patch of blood-root as any in the woods at home. She fell on her knees before it, touched the white glowing petals with her hands, then buried her face in them.

It was there the kind sister found her and beckoned her to return.

“But I can’t find wood! There is no wood!” cried Molly in distress.

The Indian woman shook her head and repeated the word in Indian. Then she stopped where the dead branches were lying and broke them up into short lengths. She worked fast and soon had a great pile ready. She passed a long strap of bark around a bundle of wood and laid it across Molly’s back. She talked quietly in Indian words and somehow made Molly understand that when there was work to do, she must help. On her own back she bundled the rest of the wood and together they walked back to the lodge. The cross Indian woman was there waiting. Silently she looked on. When they put the wood down on the ground and pulled out the straps, it made a great pile.

“Here’s your wood!” cried Molly, proudly. Surely now, no matter how cross she was, the woman would be pleased.

But she scolded again. The sound of the English word in Molly’s mouth made her angry. Repeating the word in Indian, she cuffed Molly and gave her another kick.

Molly scarcely felt the blows. She was thinking of the corn-pone. Was she too late? Had she stayed too long in the woods, looking at the blood-root? Eagerly she ran into the lodge to the fireside, expecting to see the corn-pone lying tip-tilted on a board. Eagerly she sniffed to smell its rich crust browning. Then she started back in dismay, for there was nothing by the fireside, no board, no corn-pone, nothing.

Oh, what had they done with the meal, the soft, crumbly meal? It wasn’t long until she learned the answer to her question. With a round, flat, longhandled paddle the woman dipped into the pot that was boiling on the fire, as she had done the night before. She brought out several wet, dripping corn-cakes and placed them on a bark platter. She handed it out toward Molly.

Molly looked at the Indian women and children standing about and wished they would go away. Some held bowls in their hands and supped soup noisily. Others stood and stared at her. Did they eat whenever they pleased? Did they have no regular meals?

Molly took a cake and held it in her hand. It was an inch thick and about six inches across. But the cake had been boiled in water—it wasn’t corn-pone at all! Dry, crisp, crunchy corn-pone, with a sweet brown crust that was good to bite upon. Would she never taste that again? Molly looked at the wet cake in her hand. She lifted it to her lips, she sniffed it with her nose, but again, she could not eat. Down she threw it into the fire and, sullen and defiant, watched it burn.

A look of horror went round the circle. The Indian women stared at each other and spoke in shocked voices. Although Molly did not know it, she had violated an old tradition. Corn must be treated with respect. Corn must never be burned. It must be eaten, not wasted. No person may abuse a gift of the Three Sisters. Molly saw the women’s angry looks and trembled. She knew she had done a dreadful thing.

The little white dog came near and wagged his tail. Molly took him into her lap. She put her arms about him and buried her face in his shaggy fur.

The older woman’s anger passed. With her large ladle, she dipped into the steaming pot and filled a small bowl with the soup, the liquor in which the cakes had been boiled. She handed the bowl to Molly. But the girl shook her head in angry refusal. How could she eat their terrible food?

Raising her eyes, Molly noticed that the man who had been sleeping in the bunk against the wall, was up. Very straight and tall he stood on the other side of the fire. She wondered if he had come for food or whether he had had his breakfast. His nose was long, his forehead high, his mouth wide. His eyes were bright and piercing. As she studied him Molly was struck with his noble appearance. She had not known before an Indian could look so fine, so wise, so good. As he walked across the room his gaze met Molly’s and somehow she felt ashamed. He said no word but his clear eyes told her he disapproved of her bad behavior and expected better things. Then he went out the door.

The moment he was gone, Molly pushed the dog off her lap. She stumbled to her feet and picked up a wooden bowl. She held it out to the woman, who filled it up with soup. The soup had no taste, but Molly ate it to the last drop.

She took a corn-cake from the platter. The corn-cake, like the soup, was made without salt and had no taste. The corn-cake was wet and soggy, but Molly knew now that she was hungry and greedily she ate. Smiling, the Indian woman watched her.

But the morning had only begun. As soon as Molly’s meal was over, the cross Indian sister came up. She handed Molly a bark water vessel and pointed to a spring at the edge of the woods. Water had to be carried each day for cooking, washing and drinking. A white girl captive was useful for chores such as these.

“Water! Water!” said the woman, in Indian. “Go fill the vessel with water and bring it back!”

Molly hurried off toward the spring. She found the water bubbling out from under a pile of rocks at the base of a low hill. Stooping down she filled the vessel, then set it on the ground.

Suddenly she was tired, too tired to carry the water back to the lodge. She walked a little way into the woods, found a fallen log and sat down. She knew she mustn’t stay. The cross sister would come and find her, kick her and take her back. Off she started into the woods, where the trees grew larger and the shade was deeper. She would go away where the woman could not find her. She could never live with the Indians. Everything there was hateful. She would never go back to the lodge again.

Aimlessly she pushed through the rough undergrowth, not knowing or caring which way she went. It made her think of the mountain journey. Trees, bushes and branches barred her path on all sides. The bushes were full of thorns. Their rough branches tore at her hands and arms. They were trying to hold her back. It was no use—no use to try. She was tired, too tired to push through any further. She had never been or felt really rested after the long mountain journey. She dropped to the ground dejected.

Now she knew. She knew why her mother had begged her not to try to come back. She knew why Indian captives, especially women and children, stayed and lived with the Indians, why they never went back to their homes again. The forest was a cruel enemy. The forest was no place for traveling. The forest kept her from going home. She leaned against a tree and cried.

It was very quiet except for the movement and chirping of birds, but Molly did not hear. She sat there for a long time, lost in sorrow. The memories of her parents, her brothers and sisters and the log cabin home pressed down in pain upon her. The tears came and sobs shook her forlorn little figure.

Through the stillness, a strange noise came singing like a flash. A sharp whizzing sound of swift movement passed over. Molly glanced up to see a bush stir beyond her, then hid her face again. Moments passed, then came the regular beat of quiet footsteps. Nearer they came and nearer. When they stopped, Molly knew that some one was watching and a queer feeling went through her. Would it be the kind sister come to help? Or the cross one to punish and take her back again? She trembled from head to foot, not daring to look up. She listened. Whoever it was, they seemed to be only standing and looking. Whoever it was, they came no nearer.

Slowly Molly raised her swollen, tear-stained face. No, it was neither of the two Indian sisters—it was only an Indian boy. It was the same boy she had seen in the crowd about the fire when she arrived the night before. He had soft brown eyes and they made her think of Davy Wheelock.

She stared at him from head to foot. He wore deerskin leggings and waist-cloth, but his broad, brown shoulders were bare. His black hair hung loose to his shoulders. His forehead was low and his eyes were narrow. He had a quiver of arrows strapped on his back and he held a bow in his hand. He looked at Molly sympathetically. Then he pointed to his bow, making motions as if to ask where his arrow went.

Molly rose from her seat and looked beyond the tree where she was sitting. In a moment she had found the arrow beside the bush and brought it back. She held it in her hand and looked at it. A shaft of red willow it was, with a sharp bone point and red feathers fastened on at the end. She handed it back to the Indian boy and saw a broad smile spread over his face.

She sat down again disconsolately. She leaned against the tree and the tears began to come. He was only an Indian boy. He was the same size as Davy Wheelock, but his skin was red and his words were Indian. She listened as he spoke. He pointed to his bow and arrow and seemed to be talking about them, but the words, to Molly, sounded harsh, strange and meaningless.