by Scott O'Dell
I caught a glimpse of a young man with a serious face peering at me from behind a pile of boxes. I guessed that he was young Mr. Morton. Old Mr. Morton had a square beard. He took hold of it with both hands and said that I must be new to Ridgeford because he had not seen me before.
"Is thee settling or passing through?"
"Passing through."
"Northward?"
I nodded, though that was not where I was going. Mr. Morton had cold eyes. They kept glancing at the musket.
"Thee will find heavy snows in the north. If thee will buy three blankets, I will make thee a bargain."
"That's all the money I have today. If you would care to trust me..."
"Cannot if thee is passing through."
I had the strong feeling that he wouldn't trust me even if I planned to stay in Ridgeford the rest of my life.
"I note that thee carries a musket," he said. "Ridgeford and hereabouts being peace-loving and God-fearing, I wonder why thee does."
"That is none of your business," I said.
At this rudeness Mr. Morton pulled down the corners of his mouth but still kept his eyes on the musket. There was a sudden, loud roll of thunder.
"Thee will need protection against the storm," he said, "seeing that thee is lightly attired. I can furnish a proper garment, should thee see fit to leave thy musket for bond."
"Thank you," I said, "but I don't see fit to leave my musket."
Mr. Morton grunted. It was plain that he felt he was dealing with a mad girl. I think he half-suspected that I would up and turn the musket on him should he say more.
Rain was beating loud against the windowpane. I heard cursing in the street and a heavy wagon pull up.
"Must be Sam Goshen," Mr. Morton said. He went to the window and looked out. "It's Sam, all right. Stole himself a couple of cows on the way."
There were a few other sundries I needed, but I paid for what I had. I said good-bye and walked over to the window. Goshen was getting down to tie up his oxen. I waited behind a clothes rack until he came in. Then I bundled up and slipped out the door. I crossed the street and stood behind a clump of sumac and waited to find out if he had seen me. When he didn't come to the door, I went on.
The Negro girl was walking fast, going toward the north. We waved at each other, I holding up my musket. Farther along I stopped and glanced back, looking for Sam Goshen. He was nowhere in sight, but his little blue-eyed dog, asleep I guess when I walked past the wagon, now came slinking down the street. He eased up and circled me and growled. I paid no attention to him and went on my way.
The rain had slacked. 1 stood under a big maple tree and got myself ready to make a start. When I came into Ridgeford Fd had a glimpse of the land in that direction, the wilderness the Negro girl had spoken of. It was a place where I would find good timber to build myself a lean-to, and game and wild fowl likely for the taking.
What was more, the King's men would surely lose my trail, never believing that they would find me in this wilderness country.
It began to rain again, but I started off at a good pace, though the bundle was heavy.
I passed an apple orchard where there were some windfalls lying on the ground. I picked up seven of them, ate one, and put the rest in my bodice. There was no house or barn around.
I climbed a ridge thick with pine trees and down the other side into a meadow wooded with maples that had turned red and looked like flames. As if you could stand beside them and keep yourself warm.
It was near dusk now, and, being tired and wet, I found shelter under one of these big trees. The faggots I collected were wet, but by using some of my gunpowder I got them to burn. There was a creek nearby with trout in it, which I could have caught had I remembered to buy hooks and line. But I wasn't really hungry. I was too tired to eat.
The sky cleared and stars came out, but at dawn black clouds were rolling in from the north, and a cold wind lashed the trees. This is as far as I would go, I decided. Timber for a lean-to stood around me. I had water to drink and wood for fire. At the far end of the meadow, wild geese were feeding. Game birds were calling from the underbrush.
Around me was all that I needed. And yet I had the urge to move on, to climb the ridge that rose above me, to walk on and on, until Ridgeford village and all the villages and all their people lay far behind me.
The temptation to stay there in the meadow was strong, but at last I tied my bundle together and shouldered the musket. I started up the ridge, but as I reached the crest thunder crashed around me.
Through swirling mist I caught a glimpse, not far below me, of a dark slash in the hillside that might offer shelter. I stumbled toward it, sliding and falling and scrambling to my feet. The opening, I found to my surprise, was the mouth of a cave that ran back into the hill.
I stopped and peered inside. I heard loud breathing, the sound of things moving about, then the clack of hoofs against rock. I took a step farther and shouted.
Echoes wandered back to me. There was a moment of silence. Then a rush of air and hurtling bodies and a living stream burst forth from the cave, swept past me, and was lost in the mist. I had routed a herd of deer that had taken shelter from the storm.
Sounds still came from the cave. I ventured another step and shouted again. I crept farther and saw dimly a pair of foxes standing in a corner of the cave, staring at me in fright. I routed them out and down the hillside.
It was hard to see far into the cave, but near the entrance I found a scattering of wood that someone had left. Using powder and my tinderbox, I started a fire.
I sat down by the fire and laid the musket beside me. I ate the rest of the windfall apples I had gathered. I listened to the sound of the north wind and the rain lashing the trees. The fire made warm shadows on the dark stone.
"At last I have found a place to rest," I said. I was tempted to pray but didn't.
22
THE DAY WAS dawning cold and clear. Its first faint light shone through the jagged mouth of the cave. I gazed around me at what I had only, dimly seen before.
I was in a room shaped like an irregular square, with smooth walls and a stone floor. The walls slanted inward and came together high over my head to form a crude vault. At the top of this vault was a jagged hole that let in the light.
In the center of the room, near the place where I had built a fire, was a ring of ashes, and beside it sat six clay pots, all of them broken. On the four walls were pictures painted in dim red and brown colors, showing a bear, a large forest cat of some sort, and a herd of running deer.
At first, gazing around me, I felt uncomfortable. People had lived here once. The ashes were cold and the pots covered with dust, yet the people might return. But as I sat there I began to feel differently about them, whoever they were, those who had built fires and painted pictures. Their pictures had almost faded away into the stone. Their pots were broken. Their fires were rings of cold gray ashes. The cave had been here for a long, long time. Likely it had sheltered many. It had sheltered those who had been here last, and they in turn had left.
I got to my feet. The fire was dying. I kindled it with powder and rolled a big log up against it. It was then, when the fire began to burn anew, that I decided. I had gone far. I had gone far enough.
I went to the mouth of the cave and looked out. The sun was behind a ridge. It was the dark time before the real dawn. Below me, at the foot of a wooded slope, were two small ponds and between them a deep blue lake that stretched away to the west. It was a beautiful land that lay there in the shadows before dawn.
"Yes," I said to myself, "I have gone as far as I will go."
While I stood at the mouth of the cave, gazing down at the wilderness of forest and water, I was aware of a rushing sound, softer than the running deer had made, but loud. It was the sound of wings, of hundreds of wings pouring past me into the mouth of the cave.
The flight lasted for several minutes. When it was over I went back into the cave. At the very top of the vault wa
s a gleam of sunlight. It shone on a black, heaving mass of twittering bats hanging upside down from a rocky ledge.
I couldn't live in a cave full of noisy creatures, so the first thing I did was to build a lean-to outside against the face of a rock. That took me a half-morning of hard work.
I remembered that one summer at home we had a pair of bats fly into the house. They stayed there, hanging on a rafter for three days, until Father thought of leaving a door open at night. "They flew in at night," he said; "they'll leave the same time." And they did.
At dusk, after the bats had flown out, some from the opening at the top, but most of them from below, swooping past by the hundreds but never touching me, I covered the mouth of the cave with a blanket. The opening at the top I left uncovered to serve as a smoke hole.
The next morning I saw some of the creatures hanging upside down in the trees around the cave. The following day I saw none. They apparently had found a new home somewhere. I gathered pine wood and built a big fire in the cave and kept it going for two days.
At the end of that time I collected my belongings and left the lean-to. I was happy to learn that the pine smoke had cleaned out the heavy air. I needed the blanket at night, so I took it down and made a crude hingeless door of birch saplings.
Near the mouth of the cave, in the midst of an alder grove, three springs came out of the rocks and formed a stream that wandered down the slope and emptied into the lake. There were many pools along the way, some dammed up by beavers, all with fish. I caught two small trout by chasing them into the shallows and scooping them out on the bank.
I cooked both for supper, being hungry for the first time in weeks. A cold wind was blowing, and I thought that what I heard was the wind whistling through the cracks in my makeshift door. Then I caught glimpses of a shadowy figure darting back and forth. It would disappear high up toward the roof. Then it would fly toward the door.
I remembered again the time that the two bats flew into our house. The first night I got scared and hid in the woodshed. While I was hiding, my brother, Chad, rolled up one of my stockings. He came to the door and shouted that bats were flying. At the same moment he threw the rolled-up stocking and hit me square on the head. I thought it was one of the bats and that it was tangled in my hair. I jumped up and screamed and ran outside.
I thought about that time now as the bat swooped around my ears. At last I got up and took down the door. In a second it was gone. At dawn when I went out it was clinging to one of the birch saplings. It was smaller than my hand and pure white, except for a pink dot on its forehead and small, pink markings under its wings. I carried the bat inside and put it in a dark corner. At dusk I took down the door and it flew off to hunt for food. At dawn it returned.
I thought hard, trying to find a name for the little creature.
23
THERE WAS SO much I had to do that the following day I got in a panic and did nothing except sit in front of the cave and watch the flocks of geese flying down from the north. They circled the lake in wedges, calling and honking, then settled on the lake. Some of the flocks flew close, and I could see their black, shining necks and the white slashes on their cheeks.
But the next day I worked hard gathering acorns, about three bushels of them, which I husked, then pounded with a rock and washed in the stream. I spread the coarse flour on a blanket in front of the fire and let it dry all night. Using part of a hollow log and a club, I ground the flour still further. That night I set it out to dry again.
There were many dried gourds in the meadow. I cleaned out a dozen of the biggest and filled them with flour. I made a big loaf of bread for supper. It was much coarser and not so flavorful as the wheat flour from Purdy's mill, but better than it might have been.
The weather continued bright and cold. The maples were still aflame. Geese kept coming in from the north, so many that they shaded the sun, so many that I managed to kill two of them with only one shot. The feathers I stuffed between the two blankets, which made a thick, warm comforter. I made a bed of pine boughs laced with moss and rushes. It was not so soft as my bed at home nor some of the beds I had slept in during my travels. But I was tired out every night and could have slept on the bare stone.
For five days I brought in firewood from the surrounding forest. I cut some, but mostly it was timber that had fallen during storms in years past. It made a stack that filled one whole side of the cave, a row deep and shoulder high. It was enough, I knew from times on the farm, to keep a fire burning through the long days and nights of winter, with some to spare.
I still lacked meat. I had seen tracks along the edge of the marsh where a bear had been feeding, but I had strong doubts about my skill with the musket, despite my lucky shot at the geese. I had threatened Sam Goshen with it. But I had not confronted a bear. My brother had killed one, a small one, but remembering the scare he had had with it, I decided against the idea. If I came upon a bear suddenly and had a choice of shooting or being clawed, that would be different.
Herds of deer came down to the pond every evening to drink, about a dozen of them in each herd, plump and sleek after summer feeding. On the farm my brother shot deer all year long, and I had helped him dress the carcasses. I cooked and ate the meat. But I never enjoyed any of it. I remembered how beautiful their eyes were when they were living.
I killed one of them and had no bad feelings about it. I stretched the hide and pegged it out to dry in front of the cave. I planned to make a mat from part of it and a bedcover from the rest. The first night, however, animals came—I think they were foxes—and dragged the hide away. I found the hide, but it was so chewed-up I could not use it, though I did save some strips.
I fished in the stream and caught trout. They were so plentiful that I had no trouble scooping them out of the shallows and onto the bank.
They had many colored speckles and their flesh was pink. I split them down the center and cooked them crisp over the fire, heads and all. I thought about smoking some for winter, but put it off from day to day. There were too many things to do.
I made wicks from threads I stole from the blankets, poured deer tallow in more than a dozen dry gourds, and made candles that would burn for days, each of them. I also made a store of rush lights, using deer tallow and rushes gathered in the marsh.
If I'd had flax or wool, I might have tried to fashion a small loom, for I needed a dress badly. As it was, I had nothing to do after supper except go to bed. I had no desire to read the Bible. I had put it away on a shelf I made when I first came and had not taken it down.
The white bat was company. I let it out at dusk every night and watched it fly away. Sometimes it would fly around the mouth of the cave while I stood there, as if it did so to be friendly. I still had not thought of a name for it.
I lost track of the days. It was November, but I could not account for all the time since I had left the Lion and Lamb. Guessing, I decided the date was November seventh. I scratched it on the wall with my jackknife. It was as good a date as any. Thereafter, I would scratch a mark beside it, one for each day that passed.
24
THE WIND BLEW hard that night. It rattled the makeshift door and made strange noises high up in the ceiling. At dawn it died away. Everything was so quiet that I decided that snow must be falling. Then I heard sounds again and I thought that it was an animal scratching around. But when I went outside a man was standing not a dozen paces away.
There was a low-growing bush between us, so I saw his face before I saw the rest of him. It was an Indian face, dark and long, with black eyes that caught the dawnlight. He peered at me in surprise, as if he had come unexpectedly upon an animal he had been stalking.
The Indian—he was neither young nor old—moved from behind the bush. He held up his hands to show that he was not armed. In response to this friendly gesture I leaned my musket against the wall. Only then did I see that he had a hunting knife tucked into the top of one of his buckskin leggings.
He touched himself on
the chest and spoke a long word that I took to be his name. It sounded like Wantiticut. He wore a greasy deerskin jacket hung with tiny pieces of copper. From it he drew forth a sheet of paper, which he unfolded and thrust toward me.
The paper was greasy from much handling and most of the writing was blurred, but I made out the words "White Plains" and the name "Yellow Monkey Tavern."
The Indian held the paper in front of me for only a moment. Before I had a chance to read further, he thrust it back in his jacket. At the same time, he made a gesture that took in the ponds, the lake, the stream, the forest, all the country that lay around us.
"Mine," he said in a haughty voice. "Mine."
The ax was propped against a tree that I planned to cut down for a new door frame. The Indian strode over and lifted it to his shoulder. He glanced around, searching to see if I had anything else that suited his fancy. His eyes fastened on the white bat, which had returned from its nightly wanderings and was hanging above the door.
"No good," he said and raised the ax to crush it.
I stepped in front of him and put the bat inside the cave.
Again he shook the paper in my face and made a gesture that took in everything within his sight.
"Mine," he repeated. "Waccabuc, mine."
I was fairly sure that the paper had nothing to do with me. Most likely he had picked it up somewhere in his wanderings and was trying to pass it off as a deed of ownership.
The Indian stared at me and waited. I wanted to tell him that I owned nothing, not the meadow, not the lake, not the trees, not the cave.
We stared at each other in silence. His eyes were hard, like the glint of the knife tucked away in his legging.
I wanted to tell him that, though I laid no claim to what lay around us, I would not leave it. I had come here from a far distance, and I was not to be driven out by him nor by anyone.