Thieving Forest (16 page)

Susanna looks at the visiting Chippewa in the circle, who seem very colorful in their traditional dress, whereas the mission Indians are all dressed like white men. The room is noisy with talk, and it smells strongly of men’s bodies mixed with tobacco and smoke from the fire. When Susanna opens her mouth she can feel the smoke on her tongue like a taste.

Consolation and Johanna go off to fill the water pitchers from the large cask near the fireplace, and Susanna takes the opportunity to turn to Beatrice again.

“I thought you wanted to run our store,” she says. “You argued so hard for that.”

“I believe in the worth of the brethren’s mission,” Beatrice says in a low voice. Her fervent voice. “There is good work being done here. Just look around you! I want to help.”

“But what about me?” Susanna can hear that she sounds like a child. She feels like a child.

“Susanna, people grow up, they marry, they leave home. We can’t always be all together. Even if...if none of what happened had happened, we still might not be together. You wanted to go to Philadelphia, and I wanted to stay in Severne. Remember? You might have left, I might have stayed.”

Strangely, that never occurred to Susanna. She thought they would all go or stay together. The barren sisters, the sisters who give themselves airs. She doesn’t want to live by herself.

Consolation and Johanna return with full pitchers just as a thin, tall Chippewa stands up. Susanna guesses that this is the chief, Pemitschischen. He is wearing many ropes of necklaces and his tunic is embroidered with a beautiful pattern of green leaves edged in blue thread. The young man next to him also stands, and the smoky room becomes quiet.

When Pemitschischen begins to speak, the young man translates his words into English.

“Grandfather,” he begins, looking at Brother Graves. “The Chippewa, Tawa, Potawatomi, and Wyandot have charged me to come to you and in their name bring you this message of peace. This string”—he lifts a white string of wampum—”is proof of the agreement among these four nations, and our promise of goodwill to you.” He passes the wampum down the line to Brother Graves, who accepts it with a bow of his head.

“Grandfather, you perhaps have heard evil rumors which have caused you and those like you pain and uneasiness. Tonight let me wash your eyes so you can see the truth of what I am saying. Let me make clear your heart so that with your heart you may understand we offer not war but peace, not discord but friendship. We of the four nations stand by your new nation and call your president our king. To this we give you another string as a promise.”

He talks for a few minutes, and in spite of her argument with Beatrice Susanna finds herself drawn to his words and to the gentle cadence of his speech, although she does not know what rumors he is talking about. When Pemitschischen finishes, she looks over at Beatrice. Her eyes are shining.

Brother Graves stands to give his own brief thanks to the visiting Chippewa for coming, and then he nods to Consolation. These are only the short speeches before the meal. After they eat the real parley will begin.

“As you serve them,” Consolation tells Susanna and Beatrice, “do not look at any man directly. Cast your eyes only upon the food. Now wait until I have served the chief.”

She picks up a basket and goes first to Pemitschischen, who selects a piece of dried venison from it. Afterward, Johanna presents to him her basket of rolls, which he waves aside. Susanna and Beatrice start at the other end of the circle.

It is hard not to look at Pemitschischen as she walks around. Even sitting, he is a powerful presence. When she comes to him, he selects two nuts from her basket and for a moment holds them in the open palm of his hand. Then he says to her, in English, “Stay.”

Susanna looks at him in surprise. From the corner of her eye she can see Consolation stop and look over.

“You walk in shoes of Potawatomi,” Pemitschischen says. “Why is this?”

She has forgotten about Aurelia’s moccasins. She looks at Consolation, who stares back at her, for once without a suggestion. Then Susanna looks at Brother Graves. He nods.

“They were my sister’s,” she answers.

“She lived with Potawatomi?”

“They—she was taken by them. She died by their hand.”

Pemitschischen looks at the rough wall behind her as if something small there has caught his attention. Consolation makes a noise and when Susanna looks over she motions with two fingers to the floor. Susanna looks down. Pemitschischen’s moccasins have the pointed tip that marks them as Chippewa. Has their discourse ended? But after a moment Pemitschischen does a surprising thing: he takes off one of his necklaces and holds it out to her.

In spite of Consolation Susanna feels that she must look at him, and when she does he is looking straight back at her. His eyes are lined with the fine wrinkles of someone who laughs and enjoys it. He says a few words in Chippewa, and the young man next to him translates: “Accept this gift as a promise of new friendship on this day and all the days to come.” Then Pemitschischen places the necklace in her hand. His fingers are warm on hers.

“Thank you,” she says, bowing her head. She looks at the necklace. It is very pretty. Small strips of leather strung with white beads hang from the main strand, and in between the strips of leather hang eight bleached bones, polished and creamy, like milk.

A ripple of pleasure mixed with embarrassment runs through her. She wants to say more than thank you but she doesn’t know how. She is honored that he has noticed her in this way, and surprised that he would seek to make reparation even though he is not responsible for what happened. He is still watching her, and when she looks at Brother Graves again he signals for her to put on the necklace. It comes down to her last rib.

“
Wanishi
,” she says in Delaware. She does not know the word for thanks in Chippewa.

“Well,” Consolation says later, when they have finished serving. They’ve left the men to their speeches and are standing outside the Meeting House. “My dear, how surprising.”

Johanna nods. “A great honor was given to you.” Carefully she lifts the necklace to look at it more closely. “These little beads are whelk. From the east,” she tells them.

“And what are these?” Beatrice asks, touching a bone.

Susanna fingers the necklace. Evening is falling and the air smells of coming rain. Above the village, dark clouds are pushing against one another as though each one wants to claim the same small space. A storm is coming. Maybe more than one.

“Turkey hen bones,” she says.

Eleven

After the Chippewa leave it rains for three days without stopping. A heavy wind keeps everyone inside, and it is so dark that even at midmorning candles are needed. Seth stays in the Brethren’s Choir contemplating the tedium of seclusion with insufficient tasks. The upstairs room is crowded and smells like sleeping bodies, of which there are many, and the downstairs fireplace smokes. Seth stays downstairs, but on the side of the room farthest from the hearth.

He does what he can, mends his bridle, writes a few letters, but on the third day he can think of no other task and finds himself reading the Proverbs. There is always a Bible at hand.

The way of a fool is right in his own eyes
, he reads. He thinks of himself. Perhaps he was a fool to come here, but how would he know? It certainly felt natural to pursue his own happiness, as recent statesmen gloriously and shrewdly have proclaimed is his right. That Susanna Quiner is tied to his happiness he has no doubt. But to move to Philadelphia? What would he do there? He pictures an ironworks shop hemmed in on both sides by other shops, the constant noise, horses everywhere. Perhaps it would not be so bad. The point is, he doesn’t know.

Outside he can hear the storm’s wind gathering force again. When he looks out he sees that the ground is covered with green branches ripped from the trees, some of them as thick as his arm. In one corner Brother Witt, a slate on his lap, is going over the letters of the English alphabet with two Seneca men. Seth puts down the Bible. He hasn’t been back to the chapel since he heard the Ottawa speak of his conversion. It occurs to him now, watching Brother Witt and his pupils, that it might be the very meeting of these two people—white and native—that makes him so uncomfortable. As though the two sides of himself could stand up together and declare that indeed a whole can be made from them. He does not know if that is really possible.

He takes from his pocket a letter he received from Cade a week ago and rereads it.

We have heard the British are selling their land for a farthing to Belgians and French alike in the hopes of raising money for a new army. Some say they are planning to invade again. England has not entirely given us up. And so I’ve decided conclusively to join a militia. There are several in Kentucky that will provide you a uniform if you provide a gun. Amos is drunk all the time, worse than ever. No doubt I’ll take to drinking too one day, if I don’t leave. He is very angry with you and talks about fetching you back with a whip in his hand. I’ve reminded him you are much stronger now than you were at twelve
.

It goes on a little longer, but it is the postscript that interests Seth most:

I’ve adopted Aurelia’s hens and have built a new henhouse closer to our cabin. But today I found two eggs in the scrub—they have not yet taken to their new home. When I leave for Kentucky I will take a hen with me as some do dogs. Fresh eggs, that will be my contribution to whatever cause I fight for
.

It is a comfort to see the familiar scrawl, even the inkblots, of which there are many. The militia will be a good place for Cade. Seth can see that Aurelia’s death still weighs on him, as indeed how could it not? But he has no doubt that eventually Cade will find a new woman and make his own, new life. The life of a soldier-farmer perhaps. Or might he persuade Cade to follow him to Philadelphia? It is then that Seth realizes he has made up his mind. He still cannot picture that life but somehow he has made up his mind.

Brother Witt laughs at something one of the Seneca has said and pats the man on the shoulder. The rain is now beating down sideways with a fury. It’s as if the earth has pulled back its own curtain to reveal its true nature: uncontrolled, unordered, unplanned, a thing apart from man whether native or white. Somehow he must get word to Susanna. Perhaps he can send a boy with a note?
I agree to your proposal. Let us go to Philadelphia
. The brethren would not object to a short note, surely.
Let us go to Philadelphia and be married
. As he gets out his writing paper and quill a great sadness comes over him that he does not understand, and does not wish to examine.

On the third day of the rainstorm Meera appears at the Sisters’ Choir holding a small wet sack in her fist. Susanna sees her dark head turn as she comes up the narrow staircase and at the top she pauses, looking around. Her square, defiant way of standing makes Susanna think again of a warrior. A very small warrior. She calls to Meera and moves her blanket over to make room for her.

“I have been sent here like the servant I am,” Meera announces. She tells Susanna that her foster mother Nushemakw has banished her from her small cabin in the married people’s section. Nushemakw’s husband has come to see his son, and there is no room anymore for Meera’s hammock. But Nushemakw still expects Meera to come to the cabin every morning and work—sweep, mend, cook the traditional food that Nushemakw cannot get at the Bell House, and take care of the baby. You must still be my daughter and do your duty to me, Nushemakw told her.

Meera says, “Nothing has changed. She talks of me as her daughter but uses me as her slave.”

“Maybe one of the brethren could help?”

Meera’s face grows darker. “I asked Sister Consolation to petition for my release, but she told me that the brethren heed the wishes of the parent, not the child. But Nushemakw is not my parent! She is my captor! And I am not a child.”

Susanna looks down at her sewing and tries to think of a suggestion. She is mending a torn collar and pulls on a loose stitch. The room is crowded with women sitting cross-legged on blankets on the floor, knitting or darning while they wait for the rain to stop. She can hear the wind whining down the chimney. Despite the storm, Beatrice has gone to the store as usual. Discomfort always spurs her on, Susanna thinks sourly.

She gives up on the stitch and puts in another one to cover it. “Don’t talk to Consolation. She makes everything into a bad business. She’s been encouraging my sister to remain here as a missionary. And now Beatrice has gone to a special service without telling me, and they drew lots for her.”

“I have witnessed this custom,” Meera says.

To Susanna, it seems like a child’s game: small pieces of paper marked with a tick or a minus are rolled up inside of goose quills, and then with some ceremony the applicants choose one of the quills from the basket.

“Beatrice drew a paper with a tick on it. Now she may formally join the community. They have given her a new name, Benigna.
Benigna!
I cannot get used to it.”