I Am Regina (18 page)

Five figures slowly round the bend in the footpath. I strain my eyes, trying to see. “Who is it?”

“Tiger Claw.” Quetit points to a figure who leans heavily upon another. “And that, that is Clear Sky! The third must be Gokhotit. I do not know the others. Come.” Tummaa barks and bounds ahead of Nunscheach and Quetit as they race to the village. I walk slowly behind them, carrying our baskets and hoping that the men have brought the provisions that we need.

When Tiger Claw, Clear Sky and Gokhotit left last winter to speak with the Frenchman, they departed in hope. But now, as they stand in the village clearing surrounded by our people, my heart sinks, for their faces are lined with despair and their hands are empty, save for some worn gray blankets.

I do not know the Delaware warrior who stands beside them, dressed in buckskin leggings and a torn red shirt. But I recognize the fifth man. It is Dupré. He has aged. Has it been four winters since he last came here? Or has it been five? His beard is gray. He wears a stained buckskin coat fringed with horsehair.

“So, Tiger Claw. You still own the white squaw,” Dupré says as I approach. His eyes remind me of a ferret's. They squint at me while a smile tugs at the comers of his mouth. “Have you found her a husband yet?”

Tiger Claw drapes his arm across Clear Sky's shoulder and spits on the ground. “What man would marry Tskinnak? Her nose is too big and her face, long like a horse.”

I had eagerly anticipated Tiger Claw's return, the provisions he would bring. But now, stung by his ugly words, I suddenly wish he had never come back. “Where are the guns you promised us? The knives and the sweet talk of triumph?” I ask, wanting to wound him as he has me.

“The Frenchman would not join us in our cause. Without his guns and warriors, there is no hope,” Clear Sky answers calmly, ignoring the sharpness in my retort.

“Pontiac's war is over?” Chief Towigh's voice trembles with the question.

“It is over.” Clear Sky hands him three blankets. “We found these at an abandoned white man's camp. We thought you could use them.”

“What good are blankets in this heat?” Woelfin says, her sharp eyes assessing Tiger Claw. I notice then how pale he is.

Tiger Claw grabs a blanket and wraps it around his shoulders. “They ease the chill of sickness. Where is my wife? My son? Why are they not here to greet me?”

“No Thought gathers sweet grass and berries, Woelfin says, placing a hand on Tiger Claw's cheek. He brushes her hand away.

“I will find No Thought,” I say, wanting to get away from Tiger Claw and Dupré. Their presence reminds me of an ugliness I do not want to think of.

“Tell No Thought to bring me white willow bark,” Woelfin says. “My son burns with fever.”

During the hot days that follow Tiger Claw's return, his sickness worsens and we spend our waking moments nursing him. He complains that his body aches and No Thought rubs his joints with oil. He thrashes in the heat of fever and Woelfin brews willow bark to make a soothing tea. When Tiger Claw shakes with chills, Chief Towigh covers him with deer skins and the men place him on a pallet made of hemp and carry him to the sweat lodge where fire, water, steaming stones and Chief Towigh's incantations are supposed to make strong magic that will drive the evil spirits out of Tiger Claw and make him well. But when he returns from sweating, he is even weaker than before.

The rank smell of sickness continues to fill our hut. Red and angry-looking pox start to erupt on Tiger Claw's face and body. Quetit and I gather the fernlike leaves of the kinnikinnick tree. We boil them into a soothing medicine that No Thought and Woelfin use to cleanse and purify the festering sores on Tiger Claw's skin. I pray that the kinnikinnick leaves will ease his suffering, but ugly memories, like a gray scalp hanging in our hut, stand in the way of my compassion. I cannot make myself go near his bed.

Like Tiger Claw, Clear Sky sickens and then Atank, the Delaware warrior who returned with them. Dupré stays in a hut by himself. He says he does not want to catch this sickness. Once the leaves turn, he will travel south, to trade with the Shawnee. I will be glad when he is gone.

When the sores on Tiger Claw's face and body begin to bleed, Dupré quickly packs his deerskin bag. “Tiger Claw has the smallpox. It is a white man's disease,” Dupré tells Woelfin, keeping his distance. “Burn the blankets found at the white man's camp. They have been cursed.”

The war has not ceased. It never will. Dupré walks away from us, his thin dark body disappearing into the trees and Woelfin wails, echoing the hurt and anger that I feel. I help her burn the blankets, but it is too late. A sickle moon shines the night Tiger Claw dies. “Aaaiigh!” Woelfin screams. All night Woelfin and No Thought grieve. Quetit and I grieve with them, for Tiger Claw's long suffering and this awful curse the white man has placed upon us.

Now the moon grows full and smallpox rages through our village. We have no breath left to mourn the dead, there are so many: Clear Sky, Gokhotit, Atank, No Thought, No Thought's baby, Nunscheach. Sometimes at night I think I hear her. A warm wind sings her melody, so high and sweet. I am afraid of who might sicken next.

 

 

 

A
flock of hungry blackbirds perches in the oak tree. Their small hard eyes watch me as I hoe the corn. I scream and wave my arms at them. They fly away, harsh cries and dark wings swooping through the air.

Tummaa mumbles, as if asking, “What is all this fuss?” He shoves his graying muzzle into my deerskin skirt and I rub his ears. Tummaa sighs. I throw down my hoe and wrap my arms around him. He licks my face, trying to tell me, “Everything will be all right.”

I wish I could curl into the shade with Tummaa and go to sleep. But I must dig out the weeds which choke the corn. It is a lonely, endless task without the other women hoeing beside me, passing time with song and gossip. And I don't know who will be here to harvest the ripened ears. Like the hungry blackbird, death perches in the rafters of our huts. Quetit has the smallpox now.

The squash I planted beneath the corn has withered. The white grub has sucked it dry. Deer flies circle overhead and the air is thick with heat.

At noon, I stumble through the corn, back to Quetit, hoping that when I see her she'll sit up in bed and say, “I'm feeling better now.”

The village is quiet. A lone dog rolls in the dusty ground outside Clear Sky's empty hut. Dust coats the two canoes upturned by the sweat lodge. I long for the sounds that are now missing: women singing as they hoe the corn and gather firewood; the rasping sound of men sharpening their hunting knives. It feels as if everyone has died. Even the birds are silent.

Shadows cast by the smokey fire greet me in our hut. Woelfin hovers over Quetit's bed, a bowl held in her hand.

“Is she better?” I ask, kneeling beside the bed.

Woelfin shakes her head. “The sickness breeds within her throat. She cannot drink.”

“Tskinnak,” Quetit whispers, reaching out to me. I take her hand, forcing myself to look at her face. The pox have begun to blister her skin, turning it red and raw.

“You must drink the willow tea,” I say, carefully fingering away the hair sticking to the sores on her face.

“It hurts to drink.”

“You must try.”

“Not now, Tskinnak. Please.”

“Perhaps you can drink later,” Woelfin says. “It will make you strong. In here.” She places her hand on Quetit's chest. Woelfin's fingers curl from the old people's disease. Her long nails yellow with age. But I know now that this gnarled hand can be a warm and caring one.

Woelfin's deerskin dress brushes against my arm. I feel her fingers lightly touch my hair before she turns away.

The two dolls Quetit made from twigs and deerskin lie at the foot of her bed. I hand them to her now. “Remember the house game you used to play?”

Quetit hugs the dolls to her chest. “I made mazes in the mud,” she whispers. “Nunscheach and I moved the dolls through the mazes until they found their home. But, Tskinnak. The mother doll you made from corn husks, the one who always waited for them, fell apart.”

“You could have made another one.”

“No. Only you can make the mother doll. Will you make one for me now?” she says, her voice a little stronger. “You and I can play.”

“I will make one for you.”

The corn has not yet ripened and the husks from the year before have rotted. I make a mother doll for Quetit from the dried sweet grass that hangs from the rafters in our hut. I twist the strands together to form the body, legs and arms, and dress the doll in a scrap of deerskin. But the doll is not the same. And the mazes that I make for Quetit in her blankets hold no secrets. I know where they lead.

The next morning, Quetit awakens caught in the awful chill of fever. Woelfin, Chief Towigh, Mauwi and Proud One help me carry her on the pallet that was made for Tiger Claw into the dome-shaped sweat lodge. There we build a fire with twelve hardwood logs and place twelve stones upon the fire. When the stones are hot, we throw water on them, causing them to steam. Chief Towigh chants amidst the steam, beseeching the Great Spirit to drive the sickness out of Quetit. I hold her hand, feeling the weariness in Chief Towigh's voice, knowing his despair.

For a short time, the fever within Quetit seems to die down and she sits up in bed, chattering the way she used to. But then, as the afternoon sun beats down on our hut, new pox break out on her face and body and the fever returns. I bathe Quetit with the medicine made from the kinnikinnick leaves until she cries out for me to stop. And then, as she tosses in a restless, pain-filled sleep, I hover over her, feeling light and hollow, like the wing bone of a bird.

I know that it's wrong to question God's will, but I question it now. Lord, you must not allow Quetit to suffer this way. She is good and kind and gentle. Heal my little sister. Make her well.

The Lord does not answer me. I continue to nurse Quetit through the night and she grows weaker. Anger, like a thunder cloud, begins to brew in me: anger against the white man; anger against God. I feel like screaming, “We have done nothing to deserve this curse! We should not be abandoned this way!”

The next morning, Stone Face dies from the smallpox and then Running Water. I feel as if the whole world were crumbling at my feet. Quetit's eyes, once sunlight on water, are now but dried-up pools. I know that she is next.

Perhaps I can bargain with God. Tell Him, “Lord, if you would spare Quetit, I will devote my life to you.” But I find it difficult to bargain with a presence I cannot feel. This must be what Hell is like.

In spite of the heat, Woelfin and I keep the fire burning in our hut both day and night. The smoke keeps the mosquitoes and the wolves at bay. Outside, the wolves howl all night long. They must scent this awful sickness. I am afraid they herald death.

Although Tummaa grumbles every morning, begging me to greet the dawn with him, I remain with Quetit. I dare not leave her anymore. When her face is slick with sweat and she is dulled by fever, I pray aloud for her. Woelfin grumbles when she hears these white man's prayers, but she does not stop nor punish me. I don't know if God hears them, but often, a smile crosses Quetit's face, as if she understands. “Dear Lord,” I pray, “wherever you may be, do not let her die.”

Now it is dusk. Quetit has had the smallpox for many nights and storm clouds gather in the sky. How much longer can a sickness last? The hut turns dark, like night. Thunder crashes and Woelfin throws tobacco on the fire to appease the angry spirits. Tummaa shivers and hides beneath my bed.

I wish I could be like a storm. Unleashing all my hurt in thunder. Bright sheets of lightning spark the air. Quetit awakens from a restless sleep.

“Little One. Do not be afraid. It is just a storm,” I tell her, smoothing the hair away from her face.

“Tskinnak. I am not afraid,” Quetit says, touching me, closing her fingers around my hand. She speaks more clearly than she has in days. “I had a dream. It was about the man of God. A robe of clouds covered him, white like snow.” Quetit's voice fades, like the sound of a dying wind through corn.

“Tell me about the man of God,” I say.

“The man of God sheltered us beneath his wings. He flew us to your home. Your home ... it was bathed in sunlight.” She shuts her eyes once more.

“Quetit. Who was standing in the door flap? Who was there to greet us?” I ask, wanting to hold her here with me, feel the warmth of a dream we have not shared in many moons.

“The sunlight hurt my eyes. I could not see. But I felt warm ... like I do when you sing your mother's song. Sing it, Tskinnak, will you?”

I enfold Quetit in my arms. I feel her heart beat like my own. I want to fill her with my love. Give her the strength to live. I sing my mother's song for her. I sing it softly, over and over again, longing for the time when I was small and a mother sang this song to me.

The storm rages through the night. I hold Quetit and I sing until my throat turns raw. Like the slow unfurling of a blossom, I begin to feel God's spirit move within me. And I realize then that He has always been there, like a small seed, buried in my heart.

Morning light awakens me. Morning light and Tummaa, poking his wet nose into my face. He is begging me to go outside. Quetit stirs in my arms.

She has survived the night. I don't know if it was the cool, clean air the storm brought or the singing of my mother's song. I hold my breath, afraid to dream of her recovery. The smallpox is fickle. Like the moon, it wanes and then it waxes.

But two days later, when Quetit sits up in bed and tells me she is tired of broth, that she wants deer meat for her breakfast, I know that she is better.