I Am Regina (17 page)

“I will not marry Achgook,” I told her later, stiffening myself to meet her gaze. “In my dreams, I walk through an endless forest and I walk alone.”

Woelfin stared at me with eyes as hard as jasper. “This marriage has nothing to do with dreams. Achgook will hunt the deer for us. He will provide the fur we need. You will have children and their laughter will fill this empty village. This time, you
must
marry.”

I add more deer brains to the pot and Quetit complains, making faces at me.

“Do not look at the brains, just stir them,” I say, drying my skin with a handful of leaves.

“Tskinnak. My belly feels sick and I am thirsty.” She hands me her ladle and slips away toward the stream. Knowing Quetit, her drink will be a long one. I cannot blame her. This is my punishment, not hers.

I look around me—at this village where I have lived for eight winters. It feels empty with our warriors gone. Woates sings a low sad melody as she sits outside her hut, grinding corn in a wooden mortar. Her only son died last winter from the coughing sickness and now her husband Gray Fox walks the warpath. She looks lonely without him. In the time of peace, he rarely left her side.

I am sick of boiling deer brains, sick of the thought of marriage and of war. In peace, I had discovered a measure of contentment sharing stories at the oak tree with the children. In peace, I could believe in dreams; imagine the warmth of my childhood home and a mother's arms. But war leaves no time for dreaming. War means clubbing mice to fill empty bellies. It means tending warriors' wounds and mourning those who've died. War is like a vulture, feeding on the dead. I don't know what has happened to the man of God. Did he go to Assowajame?

Two moons pass and the warriors return. Now Achgook struts through my garden as I try to hoe the corn. He boasts of victories against the English. Using his stubby fingers as counting sticks, he lists the forts the Indians have captured—Fort Sandusky, Fort Venango, Fort Miamis, Fort Le Boeuf ... His loud boasting drives me away. Even Woelfin's threats cannot make me go near him.

Achgook and the warriors leave once more. This time for a place called Bushy Run. Two moons later, only five of them return-Achgook, Clear Sky, Gokhotit, Tiger Claw and Gray Fox. Achgook and Tiger Claw boast of the six Yengee devils they have killed. But Clear Sky tells us of a battle lost to a white man's army led by a chief named Colonel Bouquet. Eight of our warriors died in battle, as did many of the Seneca and Shawnee who fought beside them.

Our rivers run with blood, but the fighting does not cease. Our warriors join the Tuscarora. In small packs, they attack the cabins the white man raised on Indian hunting grounds along the Muskingum River. When cold cracks the trees, the warriors will return. Snow will fall. Food will be scarce. Our bellies will ache with hunger and Achgook will stand in our door flap offering gifts of deer and bear meat. How then, will I refuse him?

Now, in the month of falling leaves, bucks with polished antlers and swollen necks search for does. At night, I hear them calling for their mates. At night, Tiger Claw, Clear Sky and Gokhotit return. They lead a white man's horse into our village. Achgook's body, along with Gray Fox's, is draped across its back.

I treated Achgook badly. I never let him near me. But I did not want the white man to shoot him. I did not want him to return like this, as cold as winter stone. I feel the weight of this stone, as if it hung from a cord around my neck—choking me.

At daybreak, I help Woelfin prepare Achgook's body for the burial. We dress him in soft deerskin leggings and a broadcloth shirt we found folded underneath his bed.

“Achgook was a brave warrior.” Woelfin's stiff hands shake as she places a string of beads around Achgook's neck. “You should have married him.”

I slip new moccasins that I have made on Achgook's feet, not knowing how to answer her, but feeling the familiar burden of guilt and sorrow settle on my shoulders.

“Achgook's spirit will not rest, knowing that you scorned him.”

The people of our village observe a mourning silence before Achgook and Gray Fox are lowered in their graves. No Thought's new baby wails, breaking the silence with his hunger. No Thought takes him to her breast. Tiger Claw watches, impassive. While the baby nurses, we commune with the dead.

If I had married Achgook, would he still be alive? At night, I will throw fat upon the fire and the smoke will feed his spirit. The smoke will let him know I meant no harm. Will smoke erase the guilt I feel?

Woates, Gray Fox's wife, shrieks as her husband's body is now lowered in the ground. “Gray Fox. Do not leave me!” she cries, tearing at her hair, her dress. We join her in loud wails of mourning.

Through the days that follow this sad burial, I throw fat upon the fire. Achgook's spirit must be at rest. I do not sense his presence here. But the loss of Gray Fox haunts his wife. Each night, Woates places a kettle of food upon his grave. A silent sickness feeds on Woates. I bring her pottage, but she will not eat.

Before the snow flies, Woates joins her husband and I fear this is the beginning of the end. The white man's cord has choked us. We have no fine clothes to dress her body in nor kettles of food to place upon her grave. We have eaten summer's fruits and they are gone. We have little meat, for the men have had no time to hunt. We have no furs to trade for the guns, ammunition, knives and blankets that we need. And even if we had these furs, there is no one with whom we can barter. The English drove the French traders from our land and we cannot barter with the English. We are at war with them.

The sky is as gray as lead. The air is thick with the smell of snow. Tiger Claw, Clear Sky and Gokhotit, who brought the cold bodies of Achgook and Gray Fox into our village then stayed to mourn their passing, prepare to leave us now. “We travel north to speak with the Frenchman,” Clear Sky says. “We must convince him to join Pontiac in the war against the English. When the leaves are green, the French and Indian will attack and finally defeat the Yengees at Fort Detroit. Then we will return to you in triumph, bringing the guns and knives and blankets that you need.”

They depart, and the snow begins. We hole up in our hut like mice in straw—Quetit, Woelfin, No Thought, her baby, Tummaa and me. Outside the snow falls silently for two long nights. We eat a rabbit Tiger Claw trapped before he left and chew on the bones. My stomach cramps with hunger as I suck the marrow from the backbone. I find it hard to sleep.

On the third morning, the sun breaks through the clouds and melts the snow's white face. Oh, how we rejoice! Quetit, No Thought and I wade through the snow to visit with others. We share our hope for catching rabbits and wild turkey once the snow has thawed.

By night, the biting cold returns. The next day, I discover with alarm that the top layer of snow has frozen into a thick hard crust. I cannot hunt in it! My feet break through the crust and make loud noises which frighten all the game away.

I strap in my stomach to ease its cramping and anxiously wait for a thaw that does not come. Quetit and I try to gather bark from the sugar tree to eat, but the snow is too deep and the crust, too hard. It cuts into our legs and makes them bleed.

Desperate for food, I lead No Thought and Quetit through deep snowdrifts, searching for the deer bones we had thrown outside our hut in the peaceful days when deer were plenty. I boil the handful that we find and everyone drinks the broth. For a moment, the gnawing in my stomach eases.

All too soon the broth is gone. Two more nights pass filled with hunger. Quetit's eyes grow large in her thin face. Tummaa grows old overnight, gray bones and sweet brown eyes. But Woelfin stays the same, thin and hard. I wonder, if I had married Achgook, would we hunger now?

On the morning of the seventh day, Chief Towigh enters our hut. He is the only man left in our village and he is old and feeble. But now a strange light gleams in his watery eyes. “I have had a dream,” he tells us. “A black bear sleeps in the hollow of an oak tree. I know this dead oak, as big around as five large bears. It stands where the stream divides in two, a one night's walk from here. In my dream, I saw bear knuckles strung around my neck. My belly was full.”

“Follow this dream,” Woelfin says, licking her lips. The thought of bear meat makes my mouth water, too. I have known hunger, but never like this—bone deep.

The sky is gray. A bitter wind tears at Chief Towigh's deerskin cloak as the women and children in our village watch him leave, carrying the only gun that we have left. He slowly walks through waist-deep snow, hunting the bear whose sleep is not disturbed by the sound of footsteps. I wish him a fruitful journey and a safe return.

Dreams are all we have to feed us while we wait for him. At night, in our small comer of the hut, Quetit and I pray quietly together while No Thought and Woelfin rock with hunger. No Thought's baby wails.

“The Lord will keep you from all evil,” I whisper to Quetit. “He will keep your life. The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in.” I see these words as clearly as I see Quetit's face. Through many winters, I have kept the Lord's words in my mind, like stitches quilled in deerskin.

Quetit holds my hand. Her blue eyes shine with love. Our prayers give us strength and we hold fast to them.

Through the nights, death stalks us. I hear him moaning through the trees outside. I feel his breath as I stumble through snowbanks, my fingers blue and frozen as I break through the crust trying to find a bone, something to boil in water. I crave the taste of meat. No Thought's baby grows pale and silent. She continues to nurse him, but her breasts are empty. I am afraid that he will die.

Three nights pass, then four, before Chief Towigh finally returns. Everyone gathers in his hut to hear what he has to say—Mauwi, Proud One with her baby boy, Flat Nose, Stone Face, Running Water, Nunscheach and Otter Woman with her three small children. Chief Towigh's lips are blue with cold, his wrinkled skin is gray. “The snow in the forest was as high as this.” He points to his chest. His hands are calloused, gnarled like bark. “The crust cut into my legs like hunting knives.” He pauses.

We hang on his pause, gazing hungrily at his empty hands.

“One night it snowed. I slept inside a hollow tree. The next day, travel was hard and slow. By nightfall, I found the dead oak and lit a fire beneath it. A large black bear, his sleep broken by the heat of fire and smoke, climbed out.”

“Old man. Where is this bear? Does he live only in your dream?” Woelfin asks.

A weary smile lights Chief Towigh's face. “Old woman. The bear meat waits for you outside; behind this hut. I made a sled out of branches and brought back all the meat that it would carry.”

Woelfin's eyes widen, reflecting her wonder and her disbelief. I know just how she is feeling. This bear meat is like the miracle of sunlight after many cold and bitter nights.

Mauwi and Woelfin roast the meat and we devour it like hungry wolves. I make certain Quetit and Tummaa get their share. The fat is sweet. It makes us strong. Milk begins to flow through No Thought's breasts. As I watch her nurse her son, I feel a kinship with her, with all the people gathered here. We have suffered. Most of our men have died in battle and we have hovered on starvation's biting edge. But Chief Towigh's gift of bear meat gives us life and, with it, hope. This snow cannot last.

 

 

 

T
he people of our village have banded together. We are like one family with Chief Towigh as our father. Warm winds finally thaw the crusted snow, and we share the rabbits that we snare, the sweet sap that we tap from the sugar trees. When the leaves on the oak tree are the size of a mouse's ear, we sing softly as we plant our corn and wait—one man, seven women and nine children—for Tiger Claw, Clear Sky and Gokhotit to return. But the men do not come back. At night, seated around a council fire, we talk together and dream of better times when the loud talk of men will fill our huts and deer will hang once more from the drying racks.

Now, in the month in which the honey bees swarm, Quetit, Nunscheach and I harvest blackberries. The bleak winter months seem far away as we pluck plump berries warmed by the sun. Black juice stains our hands and a sweet taste fills our mouths.

Quetit's and Nunscheach's baskets are only half-full, but now they sprawl together in a patch of sunlight, plopping ripe berries into each other's mouths. Tummaa lies beside Quetit, licking her face. She giggles and pushes him away. I wish I could lie down and enjoy the sunlight with them, but I know winter lies ahead. I must prepare for it.

Thorns scratch my arms as I stretch to pluck the ripened berries. Why is it that the big ones always hang beyond my reach? Something rustles through the grass. A black snake slithers across my feet. I leap backward, startled.

“Tskinnak,” Quetit whispers.

“What?” I call, my hands trembling from the close encounter with a snake. I know black snakes are harmless, but all snakes frighten me.

Quetit runs over to me, followed by Nunscheach. “We hear footsteps,” she whispers. “They come from there.” Quetit points toward the thick stand of locusts that lines the footpath leading to our village.

“Who comes this time of year?” I say.

“I hope it is a trader,” Nunscheach says. “I would like a string of wampum, pink and white, like apple blossoms.”

“You had better hope for blankets and ammunition. Come. Let's see this trader.” We slip into the woods and quietly move from the shelter of one tree to another. We crouch behind a pile of brush that overlooks the footpath. Tummaa wiggles between us, poking his nose into our faces. Suddenly, his hackles rise along his back. Tummaa starts to growl. “Shhh.” I fold my hand around his mouth, silencing him.