The Beaded Moccasins (5 page)

"We can live along the banks of the Tuscawaras Sipi
or the Cuyahoga Sipi. The Cuyahoga is farther away. We have decided to live there. Eat quickly. We leave now."

After a cornmeal-and-water breakfast, Hepte lashes a knapsack onto my back and gives me another pack to carry in my arms. My carry pack is heavy, with a rawhide strap that chafes the back of my neck. The contents shift when I squeeze it. I sneak a peek under the lid when no one is looking. The carry pack is filled with cornmeal. More cornmeal.

"You carry our family's food. An honor," Netawatwees Sachem explains.

I close the lid to the carry pack with a snap. That old Netawatwees Sachem doesn't miss a thing.

We follow the Allegheny south and ford at a wide and shallow place. I'm tired and my back already hurts from the knapsack.

Four days later we are at the forks of the Ohio River. I see Fort Pitt on the opposite shore standing proudly on the cliff far above: the Union Jack flapping in the breeze, the king's men in bright-red coats, the cannons pointing toward the river. I look eagerly at the ramshackle town of Pittsburgh, which has sprung up far below the cliff at the river's edge like a mess of skunk cabbage. My mother says Pittsburgh is full of drunken traders, even drunker Indian agents, and fancy women. But even the drunkest and fanciest would want to rescue me, I reckon. I decide to wave my sunbonnet in their direction.

Smallpox Scars stands in my path. He's blocking my view of the town and their view of me. His face is still
but his eyes are full of murder. I turn away, my heart in my mouth.

At the top of the steep riverbank I look behind us to the east. Home. Family. A cabinful of problems left behind. Westering again.

We all stand on the riverbank looking backward. I see Netawatwees Sachem gazing at the fort, a look of dull defeat in his eyes.

"Oh!" I say, suddenly realizing something. The Campbells are westering because they
want
to. These Delaware are westering because they
have
to.

Someone steps on my birthday dress from behind and the last of the stitches around the waist give way. I step out of the skirt and just leave it. I don't even look back. They're all mostly naked anyway, their shining skin the color of russet potatoes.

It's been ten weeks (I reckon) since I saw my parents and my brother. What would they think if they saw me, trudging through the wilderness as burdened as an ox, wearing a battered sunbonnet, a delicate chemise from Paris, and grimy underdrawers?

I think about Columbus marching though the New World in his underwear, claiming every footstep for the King and Queen of Spain. When I laugh, Hepte looks at me and smiles.

***

As I lie on the forest floor this steamy evening, sweat drips down my forehead and trickles into my ears.

My father once told me that trees perspire, just like
people. He said a big oak tree will give off gallons and gallons of water in a day. The more leaves there are in a summer forest, the higher the humidity.

These massive trees make the air incredibly humid. I could gather the night air in and wring it dry like a dish-towel. I can't sleep. Why did Netawatwees Sachem wait to tell me who he was? Why didn't White Eyes tell me I was to be his daughter? I watch Smallpox Scars, the man who killed Sammy, singing to his children as they nod off to sleep. His ravaged face looks gentle, his eyes brimming with loving kindness.

When I figure it out, I feel chilled to the bone.

Netawatwees Sachem was watching me, deciding if I'd be a good granddaughter. If I hadn't pleased him, he would have told Smallpox Scars to kill me, too.

EVERYTHING HURTS.

My feet, my neck, my legs, my shoulders, even my elbows hurt. Even my fingers hurt.

We walk single file, with some of the men and boys walking ahead of and some behind the women and children.

My stomach growls all the time because there's never enough to eat. I'm always thirsty, even though I drink and drink at every stream and creek we cross. I splash water on my face, but still sweat drips down my forehead and stings my eyes all day.

In my mind's eye I see my mother's cooking, so real I can almost taste the juicy pork roast with plum sauce dribbling down my chin. The pastry surrounding her mile-high apple pie would melt in my mouth. Her cherry butter is tart and sweet, all at the same time. Her bread is as light as a cloud.

There are about two hundred of us, and each is carrying something. Even the younger children are carrying small covered baskets filled with dried berries and fruit. We don't walk very fast. The little ones walk for half the day. Then, after our midday meal, we have to carry them. So the second half of the day is even slower and harder than the first. We do stop as soon as evening falls because of them, so that's something.

Mrs. Stewart is staying with another family. At first she refused to carry anything, and the family's grandmother lashed a pack onto her back. It's tied behind so she can't take it off. I feel sorry for her; even the dogs are fed before she is.

Each midday we eat by a streambed. I've learned how to mix ground, parched acorn flour with deer fat and enough water to form a paste. We roast it wrapped around sticks. The mess tastes like burned wood. They gobble it down as if it were a Christmas goose.

I will never be like them, never! They're heathens without proper clothes or proper homes. They eat what animals would refuse. If Netawatwees Sachem thinks I'm going to be his granddaughter, he's in for a surprise.

But if I show any regret or rebellion or even sadness they might dispatch me just as they did baby Sammy.

So ... I'll be as meek and mild as a newborn lamb, all the while hiding my real self I'll be two people-the lamb the Delaware will see on the outside, and the real Mary on the inside. They'll never see the real Mary, never.

"That's what I'll do," I whisper to myself

"You are smiling," Netawatwees Sachem says to me.

"It is a beautiful day." I give him my very best lamb smile.

"A beautiful day," he says, smiling back.

I almost bleat. It works!

***

This midday Chickadee has a bad cough and looks about as tired as I feel. She lies down on the forest floor and begins to whimper softly.

When we stand again, White Eyes picks up Chickadee and arranges her on his back. Her eyes have an empty, feverish look; her coppery skin is even redder than usual.

When I smile at her, Chickadee's face lights up as she smiles back. She reaches out and pats my face with her hot, chubby paw. I see Hepte's worry-clouded eyes as she tucks a blanket around her daughter's shoulders.

God causes the diseases that kill the Indians by the thousands. Just as in ancient days, when God took up an avenging sword and smote the Canaanites so the Children of Israel could enter the Promised Land, so too He smites these savages for the sake of the New Covenant, so His children may enter the New Promised Land. God smites them for us. God kills them for me.

But I don't want Chickadee to die, so why would God?

I watch Chickadee's face as she falls against her father's shoulder. She pants as her nose runs. She goes limp and sleeps fitfully.

I slip on the trail and Netawatwees Sachem helps me
to my feet. "Granddaughter," he says softly, "we will stop soon."

When we rest, Chickadee drops out of her father's arms as loose and floppy as a rag doll. Her breathing sounds heavy and full of liquid. Hepte rubs her chest with an oil smelling of mint and pepper.

After supper another woman comes over to see Chickadee. She gives Hepte more oil. The oil is hot; it's been heating next to a cooking fire.

Hepte rubs the oil on her daughter's chest. Chickadee cries because the oil is hot. Other children are sick, too. We spend the night here so they can get plenty of sleep.

The overnight camp smells of mint and pepper. All the children have hot oil glistening on their chests. Even though the night is hot, they sleep shivering and whimpering next to the fire.

I lie awake and look at the stars twinkling between the darkening trees.

"God," I whisper, "I don't reckon it is Your plan, to choose me over Chickadee and the other little ones. But if it is, You don't have to choose because I don't want to be here in the first place. Send me home instead. Please."

As the wind lifts, it rustles the trees and sets the stars to hiding.

I tuck my blanket around my ankles and fall asleep before I can finish my prayers.

***

The mountains are gone. We are walking through high land with rolling hills.

I'm amazed that there's a trail. The trail cuts through the trees in a straight line, as though someone (something?) actually cut the trees down to make it. How can there be a trail in all this wilderness?

I ask Netawatwees Sachem that evening. "How can we be walking on a trail? There're no people here."

He smiles at me. "A long time ago, Granddaughter, the Delaware lived among animals as big as the hills. Great furry creatures with legs as big as a man and a long nose as limber as a sapling. We called them the
yah-qua-whee.

"These animals as big as the hills liked to eat the grass. Some thought the best grass was in the east, and they would walk to the east to eat that grass. Some thought the best grass was in the west, and they would walk to the west to eat that grass.

"Animals walk in a straight line to save their strength. The animals as big as the hills made the trails by walking back and forth, east to west, west to east, unable to decide which grass was better. Their trails are still here because other animals and men continue to use them."

"These animals as big as the hills are still here?" I look around wildly.

"No. That's another story. I'll tell you sometime. Perhaps someday you will understand our stories in our language."

"I don't understand what these animals looked like."

Netawatwees Sachem draws a picture in the dirt. The animals as big as the hills look like great woolly elephants with tusks that cross in the middle.

Elephants in Ohio?

He draws a picture of spear-holding hunters surrounding the elephants. The smallest elephant's tusks are bigger than the biggest man.

"These men"-I point to the spear throwers-"are Delaware? But you used to live in the east, not here."

"That, too, is another story, Granddaughter."

I think: What wonderful farmland this ground could be. The rolling hills would be perfect protection from the wind. The soil is black, it's so rich. It's moist yet spongy, like a just-baked molasses cake. Vegetables would never rot here if it rained too much. My father would want a farm in this country-"Good drainage," he would say. Corn, pumpkins, beans, and squash could grow here as big as the hills.

***

After supper a few evenings later, when we are all sitting around our cooking fire, Hepte and White Eyes commence to argue. They point at me and quarrel back and forth. Hepte's eyes glow like embers as her voice becomes angrier and angrier. Chickadee's eyes fill with tears as she looks from her parents to me. Netawatwees Sachem watches me sadly.

Terror seizes me like a wolf's jaws around my throat.

"Please don't kill me-I want to live," I say. My voice comes out in a mousy squeak. "I haven't complained, not once. I haven't sp-spilled cornmeal, not a speck. Please."

My blood roars in my ears as Hepte reaches into her
knapsack. A tomahawk? A scalping knife? I open my mouth to scream.

She pulls out a pair of beaded moccasins.

Netawatwees Sachem says, "A gift, Granddaughter."

Hepte sits next to me and places the moccasins in my hands. They are the same pale yellow as butter and just as soft; the tops are covered with intricate rows of triangles and half-moon crescents. The beads glow in every shade of blue.

"They're beautiful," I say to Hepte. "Thank you."

I pull off my boots and slip on the moccasins. They fit perfectly.

"Blue is my favorite color, Grandfather. Tell her that."

After he translates, Hepte holds my face in her hands and speaks to me. She's smiling but her eyes are sad.

"My daughter says," Netawatwees Sachem translates, "the beads are like your eyes, and you must wear the moccasins only for special occasions."

"Of course," I say. "Thank you." I wriggle my toes. The beads flicker and dance like sunlight on the clearest water.

But what special occasions could these people possibly have? All eyes watch the moccasins as I pull them off regretfully and tuck them into my backpack. As I flip the cover over the top, a bit of light goes out in all their faces. Tears slip down Hepte's cheeks as she turns away.

A quiet sadness hovers around us, as though a grieving angel has gathered us in her wings. All at once I know: Hepte made these moccasins, and they once belonged to her dead daughter.

Why don't they say so?

The next morning there's a light dusting of frost on the grass!

Of course the boys try to push one another into the frost. I scrub my hands with it and pretend it's soap.

Layers of mosquito grease have worked their way into my eyes and into the corners of my mouth. The grease makes my eyes sting even worse than sweat and makes my mouth taste oily and bitter. My fingernails are black and my hands smell, they're so dirty. I can see the grime encrusted into the wrinkles of my knuckles and ankles. Will I ever be clean again?

All I think about is how tired and dirty I am and how everything hurts. Chickadee is much better and chatters away at my heels. She gives me a headache with all her talking.

The carry pack is heavy, and the cornmeal shifts with every step. At first I thought we'd be eating this corn. As the weather cools, Hepte has been giving her family the deerskin clothes from my backpack. Little by little my burden lessens. At night I dream of carrying nothing by the end of the march. But we have not touched this food.

My knees bump into the carry pack all day; they are bright red and sore by evening. My neck is bleeding by noon because the rawhide strap rubs against my skin. I learn to tuck leaves between me and the strap, and that does help a little. But my neck always feels stiff and sore.