Crossing (4 page)

The Cheyenne had been, perhaps, more accepting of Winona because she tried hard to fit in with them. She could raise a good tepee, she could fish, she made wonderful soft buckskin breeches and shirts and vests. Her skill in beading was the best in the village; often the chieftains bought beads at the trading post at Cantonment and paid her in fish and deer meat and rabbit to do her beading on their garments.

She had lived alone, because her mother had died when she was fifteen and her father had disappeared during trapping season, going off to the distant Ouachita Mountains, never to return. When Daniel Tremayne had first met the Cheyenne, she had been seventeen. He had loved her the minute he set eyes on her. They had married, in the Cheyenne way, and a year later she had Yancy. When Yancy was ten, she contracted cholera and died.

Now as Daniel remembered her he was saddened, because this place had always been Winona’s home; but he knew that it wasn’t his home, nor was it meant to be Yancy’s home. “Yancy, we’re going to be leaving this place.”

Yancy stared at his father, his dark eyes suddenly narrowing. “Why would we do that? These are our people.”

“No, they’re not, as you just heard. When your mother was alive, we were a part of the Cheyenne people because of her. But you and I … we don’t belong here.”

“But, Father, these are my people, the Cheyenne! You’ve always taught me to be proud of my mother and what my Cheyenne blood meant!”

“Yes, Yancy, and I believe I’ve done the right thing. I always want you to be proud of your mother and your blood.” He shrugged slightly. “Maybe if your mother had lived and I had completely adopted the way of the Cheyenne, it would’ve been different. But I am a white man, and though I loved your mother very much, we lived as white people. Just look at our cabin. I could never live in a tepee that you could just pick up and move from one day to the next. I don’t have the wandering plains thoughts that your mother’s people do. I need roots, and family, and a feeling of being permanent. And though you don’t realize it, you sometimes show me you feel the same way.”

Yancy looked as though he might cry, though he never had and certainly never would—at least not in front of anyone. “But, Father, where would we go?”

“I’ve thought about this for a long time, son, and we have to go back to my people,” Daniel answered quietly and with some sorrow. “My parents are getting old, if they’re still alive. I have many regrets, because I ran away from home … and I wasn’t much older than you are now. I want us to go back to them and be a family again. That is, if they’ll have us.”

“Why wouldn’t they have you, Father?” Yancy asked curiously. His father had often told him stories and the history of the Cheyenne, but he had rarely mentioned his own family.

“Because my people belong to a group called the Amish, and they feel that a son should obey his father. Well, I didn’t do that. I ran away because I was tired of their rules and their boring lives. But now it seems to me that they do know what true love, and real family, can be.”

“But I don’t want to leave, Father! I want to be a Cheyenne. I
am
Cheyenne!” Yancy protested, his dark eyes glinting, his olive skin taking on an angry copper glow.

Daniel Tremayne sighed heavily, for this was as hard as he had known it would be. Yancy had known nothing his whole life but Indian ways. It was a life of freedom for young boys, and Yancy had reveled in it. The tribe didn’t have much contact with whites, and Yancy knew very little about that world.

Daniel had been avoiding making a decision, but this incident with Hinto and White Buffalo settled the thing in his mind. His blue eyes looked into the distance, watching the scarlet sunset over the lake. He was quiet for a time, and Yancy, too, watched the sun as it seemed to be inextricably drawn down to the quiet red waters. “You know, Yancy, White Buffalo’s people have been lucky,” Daniel said thoughtfully. “We found a good place to settle, a fertile place, with a lake full of good fish, with woods and grass and herbs. There are deer, turkey, quail, dove, and wild hogs that make easy hunting here.” He sighed deeply. “But it’s destined not to last. The white men have pushed and shoved and maneuvered the Indians from everywhere in the West. I’ve told you that they made us move down here from the north, and many of the Cheyenne didn’t find a place that was nearly as good to live as here, at Lake Essee.” The Cheyenne had named the lake E ‘se’he, which meant “sun,” but the white men had corrupted it to Lake Essee. “And the day will come that they’ll push the Cheyenne away from here. We can’t stay with them. They are a dying people. And we are not of their own.”

“They’ll fight,” Yancy said angrily.

“Yes, they will, courageously,” Daniel agreed. “And they’ll die.”

Yancy stared at his father and saw that there was no point arguing, for when Daniel Tremayne’s mind was made up, that was the end of it. It was part of his strength. “When will we leave?” asked Yancy, resigned.

“We’ll leave right away, son.” He rose and he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, saying gently, “One day when you’re a man, you’ll see I’ve made the right decision.”

“When I’m grown up, I will come back to the Cheyenne!”

Daniel almost smiled, for the rebellion in his son was very familiar to him. It was exactly the way he had been when he was a young man. “That may very well be. But until then, you and I will be together. No matter what happens, you are my son, and I’m very proud of you. I will always love you, and I will never forsake you.

So we’ll see what comes—and even if we find no other people, we’ll be a family always.”

It took almost three months for Daniel and Yancy to travel from the Oklahoma plains to the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia. Even though Lake Essee had been like an oasis in the desert, in no way could it compare to the valley. To the west were the Allegheny Mountains, gentle and eternal, old mountains with tops rounded from the ages. To the east were the Blue Ridge Mountains, smoky, quiet, mysterious. Fertile, green, serene, even in the blazing heat of August, the Shenandoah Valley lay like a priceless emerald that stretched from southern Virginia to Maryland. Every view was scenic. Every scene was green. All the green was rich.

Daniel and Yancy stopped on a small rise overlooking a large farm. The farmhouse was substantial, three stories, with gables in the attic and a wide veranda surrounding the house. There were several outbuildings—an enormous barn, stables, a housing for a huge windmill, two sheds for farm equipment, and a carriage house. Behind and to the west was a great pasture filled with fat cows, and to the east were horses feeding contentedly. Beyond were fields, rich with harvest; cornfields; hay; wheat; tobacco; barley; and soybeans. It all gave the impression of a great richness, though it was a richness that had nothing to do with money.

“This is my home,” Daniel said softly. “This is where I grew up.”

Throughout the entire journey, Yancy had grown more and more sullen. Now all he said was, “It’s a big farm. Must be lots of hard work.”

“It is,” Daniel agreed. “But I think it might be worth it. And it’s not just the farming. The valley is good hunting and good fishing, even in wintertime. I think you’ll like it, Yancy.”

“I dunno,” he muttered. “I already miss home.”

“But this is our home now,” Daniel said. “We’ll be fine.” Daniel hoped this was true. He had sent a telegram to his parents from Oklahoma City, saying that he was coming home and was bringing their grandson. He hoped they had received it. He knew they would never answer it, for the Amish wouldn’t contemplate using something as modern and complicated as a telegraph.

As they rode toward the farmhouse, Daniel said rather uncertainly, “You’ll find my parents are very religious. They are what’s called Amish people.”

“What does that mean? Amish?”

“They are people that sort of set themselves apart from others. They believe that they should live very simply and quietly. They are good Christian people, but their rules are much stricter than some others.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anything about this before?” Yancy demanded. “You’ve never said anything about God, or even about the Cheyenne gods!”

“I know,” Daniel said with some discomfort. “It’s because I’m still not sure where I am with the Lord, even now. But I do know that we need to come home.” Daniel stopped in front of the house and slipped off his horse.

A woman came through the screened door and stood on the porch, watching him. She was a small woman but held herself so straight she seemed taller than she actually was. At the age of sixty-three, her hair was still black, but with one silver wing from her left temple back to the bun she wore. Her hair was thick and healthy. Since the Amish women never cut their hair, it reached below her waist when it was down. She had sharp features—a straight nose and a strong jaw, but her blue eyes were kind. She wore the dress of Amish women. They wore plain dark dresses with collarless high necks. Over their shoulders they wore a holsz duch, a triangular shawl pinned to their apron in front. All of their fastenings were straight pins, for buttons were forbidden. All Amish women wore prayer caps, usually made of white organza. “So you’ve finally come home, Daniel,” she breathed. Then she held out her arms.

Daniel rushed to her, and they held each other for a long time. Then he held her out at arm’s length and said, “You’re looking well, Mother. I’ve missed you.”

“I am well,” she answered, “and I’ve missed you, too, Daniel. So this is Yancy?”

“Yes, this is your grandson. Yancy, this is your grandmother, Zemira.”

“Hello, ma’am,” Yancy said awkwardly, dismounting and taking off his slouch hat.

Zemira Tremayne smiled. “He favors you, Daniel.”

“Maybe, but he favors his mother more.” Daniel looked toward the house and asked, “Is Father inside?”

“No, son, he’s over there.” Zemira gestured toward a grove of oak trees, adding, “He went to be with the Lord two years ago.”

Daniel glanced at the small cemetery then dropped his gaze, unable to meet his mother’s eyes. He had left home because he’d been unable to live within the
Ordnung
, the set of rules and regulations that define the Amish lifestyle. He remembered how he had never fit into the strict confines demanded by the community. He remembered and regretted the heated arguments he had with his father, and now he burned with shame. “I’m so sorry about the way I treated you and Father. I wanted to ask his forgiveness for running away like I did.”

“He forgave you without being asked,” Zemira said. “Your father was never a man to hold a grudge. You hurt him badly when you left, saying hard words to him, Daniel. I was afraid he’d not be able to deal with it, but he did. He came to me one day about six months after you left and told me, ‘If you ever see Daniel again and I’m not here, tell him I loved him even if we didn’t agree.’”

“I was wrong to leave that way, Mother, and I want to make it up to you any way that I can. If you’ll let us come back, I’ll try and be a good son to you.”

Zemira grasped both of his hands in hers, lifted her head, and looked straight into Daniel’s eyes. “Of course you are welcome, Daniel. You are my son, and you are my family.” Then she turned to Yancy, saying, “I expect you’re hungry, Yancy. Come in the house, and I’ll see what we’ve got to eat.”

Daniel and Yancy followed her into the house, and Daniel ran his eyes over the front parlor as she led them through to the kitchen. “Nothing has changed, Mother. It’s just like it was the day I left.”

The Amish made all of their furniture, and like everything about them, it was simple and plain. Two settees, facing each other from either side of the fireplace, had straight backs with thin cushions. There were two straight chairs and two rocking chairs. One round table in the corner served as a tea table.

Daniel got a small lump in his throat when they passed through the dining room. The dining table was fine, made of maple, long enough to seat twelve. All of the chairs were handmade, ladderback, and Daniel’s father, Jacob, had even indulged in a small scroll on the topmost crosspiece.

Daniel had helped him make this furniture. Or at least Jacob had pretended that Daniel was helping. He had been small, maybe five or six years old. Jacob had given him a piece of sandpaper and had told him to sand small pieces of wood. Now Daniel wondered if anything he had sanded was actually included in the furniture. In the crosspieces of the chairs, perhaps.

They went into the kitchen, where there was an oak worktable with four stools. “Here, Yancy, Daniel, you sit down. I have some leftovers from dinner today. Sol Raber and Shadrach Braun were here today, helping with the farm, and I fixed this for them.”

“So how have you been managing the farm by yourself, Mother?” Daniel asked.

Zemira set down a platter of roast beef and a big bowl of mashed potatoes that had been kept on the woodstove, which still had coals enough to keep it warm. “You know this, Daniel,” she answered matter-of-factly. “You are not my only family. This community is my family, too, and since your father died, everyone in the valley has helped me.”

The Amish were indeed loyal to everyone in their community. Anytime anyone needed help—with money, with children, with work, with the farm—the entire community helped. The settlement in the Shenandoah Valley was relatively small, now with twenty-two family farms, though that number was growing as they married and bought more land. But when Jacob Tremayne had died, all of the able men of the twenty-two families took turns taking care of the Tremayne farm and holdings. Zemira was still strong, and she herself still tended to the milking, the cows, the horses, the kitchen garden, and the cornfield. But the men of the Amish community had helped with plowing, sowing, seeding, harvesting, selling the goods at market, and with firewood and tending the livestock in the bitter winters. Zemira told Daniel of all the men and boys who had helped her for the last two years since Jacob had died.