Soft Rain (7 page)

Soft Rain was as happy as when she had danced in her dream. But this was different. Green Fern and Grandmother weren’t in the barn watching her.

The blankets were still damp, but Soft Rain didn’t need them. She slept under her blanket of hay. By the next morning the rain had stopped. The sun shining through the open door awakened her. She crawled out from under the hay and stretched in the sun’s light.

While her mother baked more bread, Soft Rain helped Aunt Kee carry the blankets outside to finish drying. All day people ate, told stories, and sang. As Soft Rain listened she thought,
If Grandmother
were here, she would be the best storyteller. Someday I’ll tell her how I danced in the barn and slept under the hay
.

Two days later they heard loud whooping—the Tsalagi warning that someone was approaching. Soon they heard snorting animals and rattling wagons. Soft Rain joined the other women and children outside. She wondered if this was the group the young chief had told them to join. She wasn’t ready to walk on the long trail again. She turned away from the new arrivals.
“Siyu, siyu!”
she heard Mother yell excitedly.

It isn’t possible
, she thought, but she quickly turned back to see her mother running toward the man on the lead horse. Soft Rain ran, too. Her father slid off his horse and Soft Rain jumped into his arms.

She buried her head in his chest, sniffing his deerskin hunting shirt.
He smells the same
, she thought. She wanted to cry, laugh, shout. She wanted to tell him many things. “I knew you would find us” was all she could utter.

A
small distance away Aunt Kee stood watching and sobbing. Soft Rain whispered to her father, “Did you know Green Fern died?”

“No!” he screamed, hurrying to Aunt Kee’s side. Holding tightly to each other, Mother and Soft Rain followed.

At first no one spoke. Then Aunt Kee asked, “Did you see Swimming Bear?”

Father sadly shook his head. Mother and Soft Rain each took a deep breath, looked at one another, and at the same time asked, “Where is Hawk Boy?”

Before answering, Father wiped tears from his face. “Some days he rides with me, but today he’s in
one of the last wagons. Come with me, Soft Rain. Let’s go together to get him. He’ll be so excited.”

Father handed Mother a small bundle. “Fresh deer meat,” he said.

Mother handed him his tobacco pouch. He smiled, then lifted Soft Rain onto the horse and mounted behind her. From so high, she could see wagons and people far away. As they rode, Father stopped often to instruct people and to answer their many questions.

In astonishment Soft Rain asked, “Are you one of the leaders?”

“Yes, I began helping somewhere along the trail, after two leaders died. It’s a great responsibility, finding food for hundreds, deciding where to camp, and helping repair the wagons.”

Soft Rain thought about the wagons she had helped push and the broken ones she’d seen left beside the road. “One of our wagons broke down and couldn’t be repaired,” she said.

“My group started with sixty wagons and enough animals to pull them,” Father told her. “There was space for all of the old, the sick, and the small children to ride. But several of the animals were stolen and eight wagons have broken down. Some of the old and sick already have to walk, and soon there will be more deaths—more people to bury.”

Her father’s quavering voice reminded Soft Rain of how concerned the young chief had been for the people in his group.
Father is also a good leader
, she thought.

Then she saw the back of a young boy standing up in a wagon. Could it be her young brother? No, this boy was too skinny. But when he turned around, their dark eyes met and Hawk Boy jumped up and down, shouting, “I knew we would find you! I knew we would find you!”

When Father lifted Soft Rain off the horse into the wagon, Hawk Boy threw his arms around his sister’s neck until she yelped.

“Where is Mother? Is … is she …?” Hawk Boy choked back tears.

“She and Aunt Kee are both in the barn. We’ve been sleeping there.” Soft Rain, fearful of hearing bad news, had not yet asked about Grandmother. But she needed to know. “Did you see Grandmother? What has happened to her? Where is she?”

“She is living in town with a white family—the store owners who were always kind to us,” Father answered, reaching inside his coat. “Hawk Boy found this under the bed. Grandmother wrapped it and said to be sure to give it to you.” He handed a package to Soft Rain.

“You found my doll—Grandmother’s doll!” She
squeezed Hawk Boy until
he
yelped. “And Pet? Where will Pet stay?” Soft Rain asked anxiously.

“With Grandmother, of course,” Hawk Boy explained. “Now, can’t we go to Mother?”

Father lifted Soft Rain back on the horse as Hawk Boy quickly mounted behind him.

While they rode back Soft Rain leaned contentedly against Father and listened to Hawk Boy’s continuous chatter. He only stopped when he slid off the horse into Mother’s arms. They cried joyful tears.

Soft Rain’s mouth watered when she smelled the soup Aunt Kee was stirring. “We haven’t tasted fresh meat since the rains fell—and very little before that,” Aunt Kee grumbled, tasting the soup.

“Too many people traveling the same trail have made the hunting difficult,” Father told her.

Later in the day, after their stomachs were full, Soft Rain stared at Hawk Boy. “You are wearing pants from the white man. You’re taller, and not so fat,” she said.

“You are taller, too, and skinny, and you need a new dress,” he said, poking his finger through a hole in her skirt.

Soft Rain frowned at her torn dress and the red mud stains that hadn’t washed off.

Gently touching her bare arm, Father said, “In
the last town we bought new clothes. And yesterday along the trail someone handed me a coat that’s about your size.”

Soft Rain tried on the white man’s clothing. It felt stiff against her skin and smelled strange, but the flowered cloth dress was clean and the coat was warm. Handing Pet’s rope to Hawk Boy, she said, “To hold your pants up.” Carefully she put Grandmother’s doll in her pouch.

“Feels better,” Hawk Boy said. “And you look better, Soft Rain. Now show me some words.” Her little brother hadn’t forgotten about learning to read.

“Hawk Boy,” Soft Rain said as she wrote his name and then her own in the wet earth. Pointing to her name, she said, “Soft Rain.” But Hawk Boy was asleep. Father carried him inside and Mother covered him with a blanket.

Early in the morning when they started back on the trail, the ground was white with frost. Hawk Boy and Soft Rain took turns walking beside Mother and riding with Father. When they crossed icy waters, they sat together on Father’s horse. The ground had frozen, and Soft Rain decided she liked riding better than walking. Sinking into the muddy tracks had been difficult, but so was walking over the frozen ruts.

That evening Father rubbed her sore feet. “We have no small shoes or boots,” he told her.

“Some people don’t even have moccasins,” Soft Rain said, recalling the young mother.

Soft Rain was riding one day when she saw something she had never seen before: a piece of white cloth on a tall pole. “What does it mean, Father?” she asked.

“An important chief has died,” he told her. “He has been buried here.”

They passed the grave slowly. The white cloth flew strongly in the wind, and Soft Rain imagined that he must have been a good, strong chief. She wondered if he’d been old. It seemed that more old people were dying every day; babies and children, too. Every morning Father helped dig into the hard earth to bury the dead.

Many days later they came to a wide river. White people in decorated carriages were waiting to cross. Snow and sleet fell during the two days it took to ferry the Real People across. When Soft Rain saw Father give the boatman money, she asked, “Why do we have to pay?”

“The man earns his living ferrying people across the river. This man did not overcharge us, as others have,” Father answered.

Soft Rain wondered how many rivers they had
crossed since their journey began. And mountains? She could not remember. The
steep
mountains were behind them, but the land was still hilly. Walking was rough, and she was cold. The ferocious wind whipped the snow around. On the coldest days Hawk Boy rode in a wagon, though he complained about the jarring, the noise, and the dying people.

After the burials the next morning, Father and most of the men left the trail to hunt. “We’ll be back in a few days, after we find game,” Father said. “We all need fresh meat.”

Three days later the men returned with only some rabbits and turkeys. “We saw deer, but the farmer drove us off his land, afraid we would steal his animals,” Father said.

The meat didn’t last long. “I am counting the days of misery,” Aunt Kee said the morning the last morsel of meat was eaten.

Soft Rain did not ask her how many days they had already walked. She couldn’t even remember how long they’d been traveling since Father’s arrival. She did know that the mornings were the most difficult.

“There is so little wood for coffins. The old ones become more and more frail, and the wagons are filled with the sick and dying,” Father complained. “No one wants to spend another day walking the
trail, but what are we to do? I must keep urging the people to continue.”

Soft Rain had never seen her father so discouraged. She wished that she could ease his pain, but she had no words to help. She watched as he rode off to hunt; would it be another day of disappointment?

That day Hawk Boy refused to ride in a wagon. “It’s horrible—smelly, noisy, and … and people die,” he cried.

“Walk with Soft Rain under her blanket,” Mother said.

Hawk Boy ducked under the blanket and Soft Rain put her arm around him.
He’s very quiet
, she thought.
He must be tired
. She knew she was. She remembered Father’s words: “What are we to do?”

Suddenly she realized that quiet was all around them—no more rumbles or moaning.

“Look, Soft Rain. The line has stopped. Let’s go see why,” Hawk Boy said, throwing off the blanket and running ahead.

S
oft Rain ran, too, and was breathless by the time she caught up with her brother. They were nearly at the front of the line. Hawk Boy was talking to a chief, a familiar-looking chief.

Smiling, the chief said, “Soft Rain, you were eating warm bread in the barn when I saw you last. It is good to see you well. Who is this young man?”

“H-Hawk Boy … m-my brother, Hawk Boy,” she stammered.

“You found your father?” the chief asked.

“
We
found
her
,” Hawk Boy boasted, straightening his shoulders. “And I found her doll.”

Soft Rain nodded. “What is happening?” she asked.

“We are at the Mississippi River. It’s wide and
there is too much ice for us to cross,” the chief answered.

“Can’t we walk over the ice?” Hawk Boy asked.

“No, there is too much ice for the ferries and not enough for the heavy wagons and animals,” the chief explained. “Others are here ahead of us, and more will certainly come before any group can cross. I fear our wagons and tents are little protection from the chilling winds. I was on my way to tell your leaders of our situation.”

“Our father is a leader, but he’s out looking for game,” Soft Rain said. “I will tell him when he returns.”

“Tell him the leaders will meet to decide how far from each other to camp … and where to dig the trenches, where to bury the dead.”

Another river; more dead. Soft Rain shivered.

Taking her blanket, the chief refolded it and placed it over both children’s shoulders. “Go to your mother, Soft Rain. Try to get warm. Your lips are turning blue.”

As they started back Hawk Boy sighed. “It will be good to stop. I’m tired of walking.”

But he was wrong. Stopping was not good. Even though the fires were tended constantly, the cold blasts of wind bit into their skin and blew firebrands
onto the tent roofs. Soft Rain screamed as two children barely escaped from a burning tent. For most of each day the people huddled, shivering under blankets. At least Soft Rain’s feet were warmer; the young chief had brought her shoes.

One afternoon when Hawk Boy was whining, Soft Rain gathered some small twigs. “We can write words with them,” she told her little brother.

He shook his head. “I’m too tired for words. I want to sleep.” Late in the day he awoke screeching because Mother was trying to move him to a wagon. “I won’t be in a wagon. Sick people in wagons die. I don’t want to die!”

Mother made him as comfortable as possible on the ground. But he had become ill. Throughout the bitterly cold day, he sweated. “Keep him covered,” Mother told Soft Rain every time he tossed off the blanket. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“He needs more strength, better food,” Mother murmured to Aunt Kee.

She nodded. “We all do.”

The next day Aunt Kee disappeared. Soft Rain went from fire to fire searching and asking for her. Father rode through the whole camp looking.

“She wouldn’t just wander off or try to go back home, the way some people have,” Mother said,
frantically searching through Aunt Kee’s bundle. “Her basket is gone, but nothing else. Where can she be?”

Two days later Aunt Kee reappeared, carrying a full basket. Her hands were bleeding and her dress was torn.

“What happened?” Soft Rain asked.

Aunt Kee’s eyes closed in exhaustion as she sank to the ground. She explained, “I walked far and climbed many fences until I found a farmer’s field with some vegetables still in the ground. It isn’t stealing if he has left them. With a rock I dug them up. Now we can make stew—a nourishing warm meal.”

When the stew was ready, Soft Rain chewed slowly, savoring each bite. Then she fed Hawk Boy. By morning he was sitting up asking for more. Later Father came with important news.

“The ice is breaking up on the river. One group starts crossing today. Soon we’ll move our camp closer to the river to await our turn.”