The Beaded Moccasins (11 page)

As he grins at me, his eyes glow. "Mademoiselle Marie, I will see you again very soon."

***

That night at our campfire Grandfather stares at the fire for a long time, lost in his own thoughts.

"Granddaughter," he says finally, "are there many French people? More than the Iroquois but less than the English?"

"I don't know. More than the Iroquois. Probably the same as the English."

"All those French," Grandfather says with a grin, "and lucky for us only one Sequin."

I laugh. My secret is safe.

"We must keep Sequin happy so he will not raise his prices," he says softly. "We must all do what we can."

My heart starts pounding. "Don't send me back there. I'll work harder. I'll learn your language. Please."

He looks shocked. "Do you think I'd let my granddaughter marry a dirty Frenchman?"

I don't know what to think, except to change the subject.

"Um ... What happened to the Erie? I never see anyone on the river but ourselves."

"One hundred years ago, the Iroquois wanted the Oyo Hoking to be their hunting grounds. The Erie were in the way, so they were all killed by the Iroquois."

"Who does Sequin trade with if nobody lives here?"

Grandfather looks at me strangely. "There are many nations in the Oyo: The Wyandot to the west, the Miami to the south, the Shawnee who live along the Muskingum River."

"Would the Iroquois really kill us if they thought we were in the way, too?"

"We have treaties with them, but they are Iroquois. And we've been enemies forever. You can't read," he says softly.

My blood jumps. "I can't read French-"

"No." His rough hand closes around my wrist like a snare.

"Never lie to me again," he says softly. But I can hear the anger in his mild voice, like embers glowing beneath a dying fire.

"I'm sorry."

"You people only know how to lie. You don't know how to speak the truth." He squeezes my wrist tighter.

"I speak the truth."

"No," he says, squeezing harder.

"You know how to speak English and French," I stammer. My hand begins to throb. "You know about the Cuyahoga flowing north and what happened to the Erie. You know about the grasslands to the west and what happened to the
yah-qua-whee.
I'm ashamed to be ignorant and I'm angry because it's not my fault. Men want girls to be pretty and sweet and stupid. That's the truth."

"I see." He lets go of my wrist. In the firelight I see white marks where his fingers were.

After a bit I say, "You went to school, Grandfather?"

"When I was eight years old, I, too, jumped into a frozen river every morning during the four winter moons. I jumped into the Susquehanna." He stares intently at the fire. "My village was close to your Campbells' cabin."

"It-it was?" I stammer.

"Afterward, I went to a boys' school in Philadelphia. I studied English, French, Latin, mathematics, and European history. I haven't read English or French for years, and an old man forgets. We studied geography, but we didn't study your Africa. I would have liked knowing about the elephants before now."

I stare at him with my mouth open. Will this man ever stop surprising me?

"Why ... why did you go to school?"

"I was to be the leader of the Delaware someday. I had to learn so many things."

"You can read a map?"

"Of course. The British gave me that map. What
would they think of me if they thought I couldn't read one of their maps?"

"The same way you think about me," I say softly. My chin quivers, my mouth crumples. Hot tears slide down my cheeks.

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Then: "Never call me 'grandfather' again."

"I'm sorry," I cry, sobbing harder.

"You misunderstand me," he says gently. "Call me
muxomsa.
It means 'grandfather.' Try it."

I sniff and wipe my eyes with the backs of my arms.

I try it. "Moo CHUM sa." It sounds like a sneeze.

"Granddaughter is
nuxkwis. Nuxkwis,
you don't know how to read, but you're learning our language well. From this time forward, no English."

"Yes. I mean,
heh-heh, Muxomsa.
But ... what about talking to Mrs. Stewart? She doesn't speak your language."

"No English. Mrs. Stewart was a mistake," he says flatly. "She is an angry, bitter woman who likes to eat but doesn't like to work. I gave her as a second wife to Tamaqua, but he tells me she's a hateful wife."

"That's not hate, it's grief. It was you who gave the order for Sammy to be killed."

"Who?"

"Her baby!"

"Her baby," he repeats softly. "Yes, I remember Sammy. We had to hurry, and she was walking too slowly."

"We could have taken turns carrying Sammy. He was
a hungry, tired baby who didn't understand what was happening. Mrs. Stewart has never forgiven you, and you forgot all about him!"

That day Sammy died rushes back to me. I remember the terror, the horror, and the grief as though he'd been murdered just that morning. What I remember most was my still silence, so afraid of doing or saying anything that might have made them angry enough to kill me. The meek little lamb. And now here I am scolding Grandfather as though he's family.

"You're so impatient, and you always expect the worst," I say.

"You're right," he replies softly.

In Fairfield I'd complain to my Aunt Orpah after my frequent quarrels with Dougal. "He's so lazy," I would shout, stamping my foot on her kitchen floor, "because he's always been the favorite."

"That's the trouble with families," she'd say, handing me a molasses cookie. "They're the people we know best, so we always think we know better."

I haven't scolded my family in months, I think in shock, not since the dead of winter. And why is that? Because I don't know them anymore.

Back home journeymen portrait painters travel from town to town, with canvases where the hair, hats, and clothes are already painted in. Only the faces are blank, nothing but bare cloth. The customer pays for his face, or the face of a loved one, to be painted on the canvas. Sometimes a favorite pet-a horse, cat, dog, or bird-is added for a personal touch and an extra payment.

The Campbells are like those faceless portraits. I remember our clothes, our livestock, and our gray and calico barn cats. But the faces of my parents, Dougal, Aunt Orpah, and Grandfather Campbell are a blur. I don't remember their features anymore.

I watch Grandfather stir the fire. He was afraid, I realize. He was afraid we would die if we didn't reach the Cuyahoga before the first snow. Sammy Stewart was a risk he couldn't afford to take.

He's my family, I think in amazement-along with Hepte, White Eyes, and Chickadee. These are the people I know best.

"I have given Mrs. Stewart a chance for more children and still she's angry. Four muskets." He shakes his head. "Not four muskets. Two. Maybe three. She would be happier with her own kind?"

"Of course."

"Good. Go to sleep."

"What about muskets?"

"Go to sleep, Nuxkwis. No more English."

As I doze off thinking about the muskets, I figure it out.

He wants to trade Mrs. Stewart to Sequin for muskets.

A
BOUT A MONTH AFTER OUR TRIP TO
S
EQUIN'S
, spring weather empties the cave. A war party leaves to explore the riverbanks, upstream and down. They are gone for days. Then one evening, just as the sun is dropping into the trees on the other side of the gorge, the men return to the cave, their voices full of relief and wonder: There are no other people on the river. We are safe from the Iroquois.

Chickadee and I find golden-yellow marsh marigolds in the thawing swamps. I teach her how to make garlands for our hair.

Once Grandfather is sure the winter is really over, we pack up all our belongings. The winter clothes and cooking pots, the knives and spoons, the muskets, the vegetable seeds, and the bearskin and wolfskin blankets are all tucked away into knapsacks and bags.

We have bright-red cloth for dresses and new copper kettles as shiny as pennies for cooking. The men look more relaxed now that they have plenty of shot and powder.

At last the bright-green leaves have a May look to them. I wonder if today is my birthday. If it is, that means I've been a captive for one year. On my last birthday, I lay in bed waiting to see what twelve felt like. That was only one year ago! After all that's happened, I feel as though one hundred years have passed, not just one.

When we have collected everything, we walk along the cliff trail. Instead of turning toward the river, we climb up the gorge to a flat piece of land just to the left of our cave. There's a stream winding through the center of the flat land. The water tumbles over the cliff to the river. This flat land above the cave will be our new home.

The men chop down the saplings and the women dig out the roots with shovels made of elk collarbones and flint knives. I help pile the sodden roots onto a steaming fire. Later we'll mix the root ashes back into the soil.

The men carefully peel the bark off the big trees and cut down more saplings. We all work together to make wigwams, twenty-five of them, one for each family. The bark is layered carefully over the springy saplings, then lashed together with grapevines.

Inside, our wigwam is almost as dark as the cave, but Hepte has covered the floor with pine needles. Sleeping on pine needles is a great comfort compared to the wet cave floor-the needles are soft and fill my nose with their crisp scent every time I move.

Our family fire is made up of five logs shaped into a star. Hepte calls it a starfire. I remember a woman on the march carrying live coals in a covered stone pot. Whenever we stopped, she added wood chips to the pot. Last fall, on the first night we spent in the cave, she added burning wood chips to each family's fire. Now she is going from starfire to starfire, adding more wood chips to each one.

When she comes to our starfire, Hepte looks pleased and relieved. I ask her to explain.

Hepte tells me, slowly, that our starfires should never stop burning or the wigwam will die along with everyone in it. In the first days none other than Kishelemukong himself, the Creator, allowed bits of stars to fall from the sky and ignite the flames.

She points to our fire. "Our Turtle clan starfire has been burning since those first days."

That can't be true, I think. "Since before the
yah-qua-whee
were killed?"

"Of course."

I shake my head. "No sense."

"In the first days," she says slowly, "a giant turtle rose from the sea, and the plants, the animals, and the People grew on his back. As long as there are the People and as long as their starfires burn, the giant turtle will float on the sea's surface and life will continue. If the fires go out, everything, even light itself, will disappear.

"The People honor turtles because of their patience and long life. Turtles can live on land and water. They feed on animals and plants. They can thrive anywhere."

That's why we're the Turtle clan, I think. It makes sense that the royal clan would be named after them.

"The Bear clan, the Wolf clan, the Turkey clan also honor turtles?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Grandfather is like the giant turtle. He holds up the world, or at least his part of it."

"I will tell him you said that," Hepte says with a smile.

I study our starfire as though it were a living thing. The flickering firelight does seem to whisper of ancient times and carefully guarded secrets. I wonder if these secrets will ever be told to me.

As I go to sleep, I remember that I haven't seen Mrs. Stewart today. It's been a long day; we hauled our baggage up the cliff trail, we built wigwams, the starfires are burning once more.

Where was Mrs. Stewart?

She must have been gathering firewood, I tell myself, or peeling bark for the wigwams. Maybe she's finally decided to work.

***

When the time comes to plant the seeds, the girls, women, and old men use elk-collarbone shovels to break up the earth. We sift the crisscrossed leftover roots out with our fingers and throw them into another steaming fire. The sun is hot, but the wet soil is cold, and by the end of the day my fingers are as cold and stiff as when I jumped into the Cuyahoga.

The gorge has turned lacy white with dogwood blossoms. Our winter birds-redbirds, chickadees, blue jays-must fight with the newcomers for tree space. Every day I see more and more springtime birds: golden finches, bluebirds, redwing blackbirds, scarlet tanagers, orioles, purple warblers. Their singing and bright feathers delight my ears and eyes. The robins hip-hop along the riverbank looking for worms, first with one eye cocked to the ground and then the other, as if they can't decide which eye works the better.

Hepte says it's planting time for the Three Sisters-the corn, the squash, and the beans. We'll also plant pumpkins. Each woman has brought her own supply of seeds on the long march from the Allegheny.

We plant the corn inside the circle of wigwams and on both sides of the stream. Once the cornstalks are knee high, the beans and squash will be planted. The cornstalks will serve as bean poles; their shadows will provide shade for the squash and pumpkin vines.

The vegetables' roots will nourish one another and the soil surrounding them.

"Like good sisters," Hepte tells me as Chickadee laughs and pats my face, "the vegetables help one another grow strong."

Hepte explains slowly and carefully; I understand just about everything she says. Chickadee is much harder to follow. She speaks too quickly, and her words blur together because she's lost her front baby teeth. White Eyes doesn't talk to me much; he spends most of his time with the men.

Grandfather has told everyone No English, so I've
had no choice but to learn their language. Most of the families are Unami, including mine, but there are other Delaware-a few Mohicans and Munsees-in our group. Just like me, they are all homesick for their lands and the way of life they left in the east.

All last winter Grandfather and a group of four other men met every few days to practice speaking English. I was always welcome. Now he shoos me away.