“Forty summers ago I became married to a Miami war chief. A gun shot in his face made him deaf. He was a kind man and a strong man. He gave me these two beautiful daughters who live close by me and keep me happy. He gave me two sons, but they were babies when they Crossed Over.
“This one, Yellow Leaf, has given me three grandchildren. Her husbands were ruined by the spirit water. It was not her fault what happened to those marriages. It was the white man’s drink. Though they have not burned our towns for some years, they still destroy us with that. Perhaps you saw their liquor houses along the road. Twice, soldiers burned my husband’s town here, but we rebuilt it better. Here I have had some years of peace. My husband and sons are buried here. I will let no white men take this place. It is a very good place. I have put down my roots in this place, like a tree. I do not want any more treaties that would take it out from under me. I would die at last.
“That has been my life. I have peace now. Brouillette, who stands behind me, husband of my older daughter, he is very good to me. He runs all the outdoors for me. Only he among the Miamis turns the earth with a plow and oxen. He is not too proud to provide all my firewood. He is a good husband to my daughter and does not drink liquor. Only they have no children. I am a widow for six winters. That has been my life. Now you are here. You believe you are my birth family. When white men come, they are after something. What are you after?”
She leaned against the chair back and felt the tightness in her shoulders from saying so much and trying to say it right. With her arms straight and her hands on her knees, she took a deep breath and sighed and waited for Miller to finish translating and watched the faces of the old white people. She felt that her heart should reach out to where they sat, but it was not happening. She did not trust white people, and the question she had asked them was still holding in her heart: What are you after?
It was the first thing the man named Joseph said in his reply: “We are only after thee. Thee’s always been in our hearts and our prayers even though thy person was lost to us all our lives. Look at us. We are thy flesh and blood, thy brothers and sister! Is that not enough to bring us here? We would have been with thee forty, fifty years ago, had we known how to find thee! What thee’s just told us about the capture is just as it happened. We know thee’s one of us. Our own sister. Born a Slocum. A parent and a grandparent, like us, with, God forbid, not many more years. And we’ve found thee, by the miracle of a good man’s kindness. Mary, Isaac, would thee have a better way of saying this? Sure I’m the only lawyer here, but must I be the only talker?”
Isaac leaned forward in his chair and said, “Sister, we were born Friends, just like thee; we’ve never hurt the Indians, or anybody. We were not the white men in those armies!”
And while Miller was translating that, using the word Quakers instead of Friends, the white woman called Mary stood up from her chair and extended a hand, almost touching Maconakwa’s wrist, and then she said:
“Dear sister! All we’re after is thee, as Joseph said. To see the face we’ve but remembered all this time. To hear thee speak our names again! Can thee just speak our names, dear?”
She remembered two of their names from somewhere far back. “Jo-seph. Mayl … May … Mary.” She paused and thought. “Isaac.”
“And thy own name, sister,” said Joseph. “Does thee remember it?”
“Slocum only. Not the other.”
“Would thee remember it if thee heard it said, sister?”
With such a melancholy sinking in her breast that it made her sigh, Maconakwa answered, “It is a long time.”
Mary said, “Dear, was it Frances?”
“Oh!” Maconakwa shut her eyes. There seemed to be a jump in her heart, an echo in her ears. She bit her lower lip, and when she looked up at old Mary, the woman’s form was dimming a little; she felt tears. She blinked and blinked. Something lifted up inside her. Palan …
In far memory she heard the name as it was said by beloved Neepah, so many, many summers ago. Palanshess. Like Palonswah.
E heh! Palanshess, eh. She tried to pronounce it as Mary had, and her heartbeat quickened, and she could feel that her whole face had eased into a wide smile; she could feel it in her cheeks and lips, the delight of smiling: “Fuh-ran-ses!” she exclaimed, nodding her head.
And Joseph, sitting just in front of her, clasped his hands together, his own face suddenly gone radiant, and he cried, “Look at that lovely smile! It’s like a sunrise!”
Maconakwa stood outside the cabin door waving as the three old people left in their buggy.
The rest of the visit had been cordial. She had proudly made tea in her beautiful teakettle and served it loaded with maple sugar. She gave them corn bread with wild plum conserve, served on china plates she had acquired and learned to use in the last few years. She watched Mary’s eyes for signs of approval in the way she did these niceties, and Mary complimented everything. The old Quakers had seemed very tired by their emotions and needed to go back to their inn in Peru town; this day, added to the fatigue of their long journey to Indiana, had worn out the woman even more than the brothers, who were strong for their age. While their carriage could still be heard, Maconakwa picked up some sewing she had been doing before their arrival, a ruffled blue calico blouse that would be a gift for old Minnow, who still lived upriver at Metosinah’s Town. She would have to be careful what she told Minnow about all this when she saw her.
Yellow Leaf went to tell her children about the white people’s visit. Cut Finger and Brouillette hung close by Maconakwa, and Cut Finger asked whether she was convinced the old ones were kin.
“I believe them to be,” she said. “E heh. I am satisfied of that.”
“Do you like them?” Cut Finger asked.
“Those are good white people. I always did believe the Quaker white people are good. I said so. If all whites were Quaker whites, perhaps we would be living in peace with them all over Turtle Island. I believe the land is big enough for all people, if they are all kind and fair to each other. I believe they never would have sold our People spirit water.”
“Will you go to visit them at Peru town tomorrow?”
Maconakwa glanced up from the sewing to her daughter’s lovely russet face with its vermilion dot on each cheekbone.
“Perhaps. I will go down to the trading post maybe, to ask Palonswah Godfroy for his thoughts. He knows white people.”
“If you go, may I go with you?”
“To the trading post or to Peru town?”
“To both.”
“Eh. Ask your husband to saddle horses for us. And for himself if he wants to come.”
“We go now?”
“To see Godfroy now. To the town tomorrow, I don’t know yet.”
Maconakwa could still ride as well as anyone, but she had to mount from standing on a bench because of her knees and hip sockets. There was not much evening left after the white people’s visit, but Maconakwa rode at a walk instead of a canter, not wanting to overtake the Slocum carriage on her way to Godfroy’s. She did not want them to think she was following them, nor did she want to have to explain why she was going to see Godfroy.
Palonswah led her into his office room while Brouillette and Cut Finger looked at things and talked to people in the store. He acted surprised to see her, but a little amused smile made her suspect that he wasn’t so surprised. “I am troubled,” she said, then told of her visitors and of their invitation and wondered whether she should go tomorrow to see them at Peru. “Do you see any trickery in it?” she asked.
He smiled and slowly shook his head. “I met those people. They are certain they are your very kin. Their hearts were full of joy and shyness as they went toward your house. Do you believe you are their sister?”
She sat for a moment with head bowed and eyes clenched shut, too swollen in her heart to speak at once. “E heh. I do believe. They have moved my heart. So old, and such a long way. It is this, Palonswah: For all the time I can remember, I have seen white
people are after something and cannot be trusted. I … how much of my heart can I give to such people? What will they do with my affections if I give them?”
He leaned forward in his chair and it creaked under his bulk. He looked straight into her eyes, nodding, and answered: “They will return them just as much. I believe I could see that in them. I know we have not seen much of it, but some white people will give without tricking. What do you have that they would want to take?”
Yes, she thought, yes! What could they really want to take from me? They are rich and old and live far away. By coming so far to me, they were giving to me, not trying to take anything.
“Palonswah, tomorrow I will go and visit with them at their inn.”
“Good.”
“Nesawsah, brother, thank you for your advice.”
He chuckled and said, “I gave none.”
That made her smile, then laugh softly, and suddenly all that had been dammed up by her caution overflowed and she was convulsing, her face wet with tears. She felt as if her heart were being bathed. When she was calm again, she said, “I am glad the white people did not see me like that, all crying in the face.”
“Were they like that?”
“Yes. The old woman—my sister—was.”
He compressed his lips and tilted his head.
“I suppose I should take them a gift,” she said.
“You should. That would be a good gift for you to give them,” he said, “a face crying with tears, like that.”
“Hah! Only if I cannot prevent it!”
“Then if a weeping face is not to be your gift, you will be buying something in my store for them?” He rubbed his hands.
“No,” she said with a mocking smile, and got up from the chair.
“Ah, no? A gift that you cannot buy here? Then I suppose you mean to give them a jug of whiskey?”
She swatted at him, but, big as he was, he dodged, and they were laughing when she left.
When the church bell began ringing so close by, the horses almost bolted; with less capable riders, they would have. Maconakwa and her daughters and Brouillette held their mounts under control and rode on up the street, watched by the many well-dressed white people who were in the vicinity of the church. Maconakwa, when the weather was right, could vaguely hear these bells all the way out at her farm but had never realized how powerful their sound was. It hurt her ears, and it was obviously hurting the horses’ sensitive hearing even more. They kept starting and prancing at each clap. She held the reins hard and corrected the mare and thought, Even my husband could have heard those noises!
So it was the white people’s religious day. She thought of that, how strange it was. As she understood it, they were religious every seventh day, instead of all the time.
The people of the town of Peru were accustomed to seeing Indians. But Maconakwa and her family, in keeping with the special nature of this visit, wore their brightest clothing and silk sashes, and were riding on good saddles, and their bridles were decorated with tufts of dyed horsehair and feathers and jingles. On Maconakwa’s breast hung a hammered silver cross as big as a hand. Women on the way to church gaped at the sight of these Indian women riding astride instead of sidesaddle, and their husbands noticed too. Maconakwa knew pretty well how the burgeoning whites and the diminishing Indians perceived each other, all the good ways and all the bad ways. She knew how the whites had got the Miamis addicted to spirit water and then scorned them for their addiction, and how the white traders would hold out a promise called “credit” and keep stretching it until they had an Indian’s belongings and soul in their hands. She knew how the white men’s wives considered the Indian women inferior even though they themselves were rather helpless in most matters and could not even vote or speak in their husbands’ councils. Most of the town white women were disdainful of the “squaws,” as they called them, but at the same time feared them and envied them. Maconakwa had heard and seen much of all that, even though she stayed at her farm most of the time and let Brouillette do the town trading and cattle selling. And the white town women’s attitude toward Maconakwa herself was even more complex because most of them knew she was of white blood. She knew that many of the town women referred to her as the “Indian queen” because of her wealth and her power to manage her own affairs, with the dashing Brouillette working for her and dedicated to her well-being.
But most of the white town women did on certain occasions and for certain purposes treat the Indians kindly, and there were a few who were always honest and kind toward them.
And the attitudes of the town men toward the Indian women was in its way even more complicated, and sometimes it made her angry while other times it made her laugh.
Therefore, as Maconakwa and her daughters and her son-in-law rode up the street toward the hotel in all their silver and bright apparel, they did not meet the eyes that were staring at them, but looked straight ahead and neither smiled nor frowned—except Brouillette, who, as a sober, smart, and well-to-do half-French man, would salute any man and look him in the eyes, usually with a bright smile as well. No one could make Brouillette look down, just as no one could make Palonswah Godfroy look down.
Still, riding through this town of the white people on a religious day with the bells clanging was, she thought, much like going through a gauntlet. And what if her brothers and sister had gone into one of the religious buildings and would not be at the inn? It might be unpleasant to have to wait, surrounded by whites.
Or it might be amusing.
She glanced aside just in time to see a plump, richly dressed man and woman staring at her with scornful eyes and tight mouths, and she thought:
I have brothers and a sister who are as white and proper and rich as you, but they do not hold their mouths tight and funny like yours. Then she thought:
I myself am as white and rich as you.
She looked straight at them and tightened her mouth like theirs, and then she had to laugh. It seemed to make them angry and they jerked their heads away and strutted off toward the church. Maconakwa heard Cut Finger giggle to herself.
There was the inn, a new, white wooden building with the shadows of the autumn leaves blue on its walls, and, with a lifting of her spirits, she saw her three gray-headed kin coming down off the hotel porch to greet her, and she was surprised at how glad she was to see them. She had dreamed of them last night—once she had finally gotten to sleep—and the dream was warm and bright.
The brother called Joseph, and the sister Mary, were coming off the porch close together, her hand hooked in his elbow, and Maconakwa remembered something they had said yesterday at her house while talking of the day when she was carried away. It was that this woman Mary, who had been just a ten-year-old girl then, had rescued this man Joseph, who was only two then, by dragging him toward the fort.
And the little boy had run so hard his breeches had fallen down.
And now see them, she thought: he helps her walk.
Pakot wehsah, she thought. That is good.
Miller was already there, standing nearby. Strangely, there were almost as many people milling around by the inn watching their approach as there had been around the church.
They dismounted and their horses were taken to a water trough and rail close by. A large bundle in white cloth lay tied behind Brouillette’s saddle.
Joseph, Mary, and Isaac came looking rested and happy, and each in turn took Maconakwa’s hand, holding it warmly with the right and covering it with the left, and in each such hand-greeting she could feel a genuine good vibration of spirit. Then they gestured for her and her family to enter the inn. She turned, caught Brouillette’s eye, and pointed with her chin to his horse. He had forgotten the gift. He raised his eyebrows, nodded quickly and trotted off to his horse, untied the bundle, heaved it onto his shoulder, and came back. Cut Finger took it from him and went into the room. There she put it on the table, and Maconakwa summoned Miller with a tilt of her head. “Bring my old sister to that table, wi
ll you?”
“Gladly, Grandmother.” He went through the crowded room and brought Mary to face Cut Finger across the table. Cut Finger was not accustomed to looking into the faces of white people, but she looked at Mary, her pretty, pale old face aglow with nervous pleasure. When Miller had hushed the babble of voices and people had gathered around, Cut Finger reached to her mother’s sleeve and pulled her closer, and then began:
“Kiji Moneto, mehgwesh!” Thanks to the Creator. “The Master of Life brings my family together with brothers and sister of my mother. Now my family brings to these travelers this gift. This gift speaks to them of our trust and friendship.”
“A ho,” murmured Maconakwa and Brouillette.
When Miller had translated that, the old Quakers appeared deeply touched.
Cut Finger said, in a quavering, sweet voice: “If the woman will now take it to see what it is, and wants it, that will speak to us of their trust and friendship in return.”
Moist-eyed, nodding and mouthing “Thank you,” Mary Towne bent over the table, taking an edge of the cloth and starting to unwrap it. She had to turn the heavy object over and over to unwrap the long white cloth. As she did so, her expression grew strained. The inner folds of the cloth appeared blood-pink, like bandages being removed from a wound. She hesitated, glanced at Joseph, saw him nod, and lifted back the last edge of cloth.
It was a fresh hind quarter of venison, neatly trimmed.
Cut Finger said now, “This flesh of the deer is the best food Creator has made for us to eat. The meat of cows fills our belly but the cow does not have good spirit like the deer. The deer is strong and free and generous. She hurts no one. She knows she was put here to feed the People, and when we eat her, those good spirits of her become ours. They feed our bodies and our souls and keep them healthy. Will you accept our gift?”
Mary Towne blinked and nodded as she heard this translated. “Yes. We accept it with happiness and humility. And … and we take your trust and your friendship to our hearts. And … we offer you ours. Like the deer, we hurt no one. Thank you, my dear niece. And thank you, Sister Frances.”
The Red Heart Page 61