by Mez Blume
Imogen and I looked at each other. Then she shrugged. “I’ll go first. I’m dying to get this grime off.” She peeled off her dusty shorts, t-shirt and even her designer tennis shoes and climbed into the copper tub while the maid carefully lifted the piping kettle from the fire and added some steaming water to Imogen’s bath. I wearily sat on a stool meanwhile and waited while Imogen soaked and exclaimed how good the hot water felt on her aching muscles. When the maid returned with a towel, Imogen reluctantly got out to make way for my turn in what was by then lukewarm bathwater. Thankfully, the maid topped up the tub with some more steaming water from the kettle, and I sank down feeling for the first time just how exhausted I was from the extraordinary day.
I was scrubbing with a piece of soap that looked like a blob of hard fat and Imogen was wrapped in her towel drying her hair in front of the fire when the maid returned with two cotton dresses and draped them over a drying rod.
Imogen held up one of the dresses and gave a long sigh. “We have got to be back home. Soon.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said, taking a blue gingham dress from the maid and slipping it over my head. “Last time I travelled back in time, the clothes were much less comfortable than this.”
“Well it’s bad enough being made to dress like Little House on the Prairie,” Imogen grumbled, putting on the other dress, a pink and red gingham. She looked down at herself with a look of despair. “You do think she’ll give us our own clothes back, don’t you? Once she’s washed them?” she asked, eyeing the maid as she slipped out the door with her arms full of our old clothes and shoes.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I answered. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We can’t dress in modern clothes while we’re here. The point is to blend in, not raise every eyebrow in town.”
Imogen made a growling noise in the back of her throat and mumbled under her breath about how much she couldn’t wait to leave this primitive time with its terrible sense of fashion.
My stomach lurched as I slid my foot into the soft slippers the maid had brought us, not because the shoe wasn’t comfortable – it was miles nicer than the hard little shoes I’d had to wear at Otterly Manor – but because I knew Imogen was right. We needed to get home. But unlike last summer at Otterly Manor, here we were on our own with no clues of a way back and no one in on our secret who could help us find one. I still hadn’t even managed to work out what year we’d landed in, much less how we were to get out of it. Worst of all, I had the feeling that Imogen was expecting me to figure out this predicament in no time, just because I’d found my way back from the past before. But at that moment, I was feeling less confident than ever in my detective skills.
I reached my hand into the collar of my dress and pulled out my locket, clenching it tight in my fist. “I need your courage, Sophia,” I whispered with my eyes squeezed shut. A knock at the door opened my eyes.
9
New Names
Wattie’s mother’s smiling face appeared in the doorway. “You eat. Then you sleep,” she said cheerfully in her simple English. A high-pitched giggle erupted from behind her. Then a round, chubby-cheeked face peeped curiously from behind her skirt and disappeared again with another giggle.
“My daughter,” Ulma explained, still smiling. “Little Beaver.”
As we followed Ulma down the hallway to the dining room, Little Beaver’s big dark eyes stayed glued on Imogen and me, but she seemed especially fascinated by Imogen. When Ulma invited us to join Wattie at the dining table for pork, beans and hot corn cakes, Little Beaver slid into a seat beside Imogen and stared at her before plucking up the courage to reach up and touch her hair. Imogen froze as if a wasp had landed on her as Little Beaver began to stroke her hair as if it were a pet kitten. I grinned down into my plate of pork and beans, privately thinking that at least someone appreciated the terrible mess Imogen’s friend had wreaked upon her hair.
“What is she doing exactly?” Imogen asked Wattie warily.
He spoke to his little sister in Cherokee through a mouthful of corn cake. When she answered him, Wattie snorted and nearly choked on his food.
“What did she say?” Imogen demanded.
“She said,” Wattie began, trying and failing to maintain a straight face, “that she likes your hair.”
“Oh.” Imogen looked suspiciously at him. “I don’t see what’s so funny about that.”
“She says she likes your hair,” Wattie continued, “because it reminds her of …”—he looked down, trying not to laugh—“of Dilli.”
“Dilli! Dilli!” the little girl chanted happily, stroking Imogen’s hair more rigorously still.
Imogen squinted at Wattie. “And what does Dilli mean exactly?”
“You’re sure you want to know?” He had a twinkle in his eye that reminded me of Charlie in a mischievous mood.
“Just tell me,” Imogen said impatiently.
“It’s an animal.” Wattie was working hard to maintain a straight face. “I don’t think you have it in England, but the Americans have given it their own name: skunk.”
Imogen’s face fell, and Wattie and I both burst out laughing, which only encouraged Little Beaver to chant “Dilli! Dilli!” all the more enthusiastically. After a moment, Ulma came into the room and took the little girl by the hand to lead her off to bed.
“It would make a good Cherokee name for you,” Wattie teased, offering me his handkerchief so I could wipe my eyes. “Dilli. Has a nice ring to it.”
“I don’t need a Cherokee name, thank you very much,” Imogen snapped, her nose in the air as she tossed her hair over one shoulder. “You can call me Imogen… or Im. But I am not answering to Skunk.”
Wattie grinned, then looked at me and tipped his head to one side before speaking. “And your Cherokee name can be … Katie Fire-Hair.”
I was about to say that I was all right with that when the sound of fast hoofbeats and a whinny outside made us all turn to the window. A second later, the front door, which was visible from the dining room, swung open, and a white man with a rifle slung over his shoulder stepped inside, scuffing his boots on the doormat. He looked tired and winded from riding fast, but he was quite handsome. As soon as I saw his curly auburn hair, I knew—this was Wattie’s father. Something about him reminded me immediately of my own dad, and a little stab of homesickness made my breath catch in my chest.
The man walked heavily into the dining room and looked from Wattie to Imogen and me and back to Wattie again.
“So, William. Do you care to tell me how you went out hunting horse thieves and came back with two young lasses?” He spoke with a strong accent that I recognised straight away from my visits to Scotland. “Or don’t tell me these are the horse thieves?” he added with a hint of a weary smile as he rested his rifle over the mantelpiece.
“No indeed, Father,” Wattie answered, jumping to his feet to help his father off with his gunpowder horn and coat. “This is Miss Katie Watson of Pennsylvania and her cousin Imogen from England. I discovered them travelling the Federal Road on their own.”
Wattie’s father’s eyebrows jumped in surprise as he looked at us. “You did well to bring them here, William.” He gave us both a fatherly, disapproving look as he joined us at the table. “Why would two young lasses be travelling the Federal Road without a chaperone in such troubled times as these? You know you might’ve been crossed by bandits or highwaymen?”
“We were on our way to stay with our Uncle Tom,” I answered in a rush. “We thought he lived around here, but turns out he doesn’t. Well, not any more anyway.” I was mortified to hear myself follow the explanation with a stupid little laugh. Wattie’s father was sure to smell a rat.
I held my breath as he peered at us with his sharp blue eyes, clearly trying to make sense of my rather patchy story and Imogen’s bizarre hair. Even with Ulma’s dresses on, Imogen’s many earrings and streaky black and blonde hair clashed with our surroundings. If only I could persuade her to wear a bonnet, I thought on pins and needles
, waiting for the man.
“I see,” he said at last, nodding his head distractedly. “Well you’re welcome here at the McKay household for the time being.”
“Thank you, Mr. McKay,” I said, Imogen nodding her agreement through a great big yawn.
He gave us another kind but tired smile. Then, to my huge relief, he resumed talking to Wattie about more pressing matters than two lost little girls from the woods. “It looks like ours are the only two horses left in Nickajack. The thieves must be local men. They knew a white man lived here or they’d never have left ours alone.”
I watched Wattie. His dark eyes glinted angrily as he pursed his lips together, but he waited silently for his father to continue.
“I’ve been all over the village to find out the extent of the damage,” Mr. McKay was saying as he took a pipe and some flint from his vest pocket. “It’s the worst raid we’ve suffered so far. And it’s not just the horses they took.”
“What do you mean?” Wattie pressed him warily.
“They killed Old Turkey’s swine. Didn’t even take the meat. Just slaughtered the beasts in cold blood.”
I shuddered. Wattie’s mouth was hanging open in disbelief. Even Imogen looked disgusted.
Mr. McKay hadn’t finished. “They set Tipping Canoe’s cornfield on fire, and when he came out to challenge them, one of the rascals threw the lit torch at his cabin. His wife had a ready bucket of well water, praise be to God, and put it out before the flames took hold. Their new baby lay sleeping inside.”
I couldn’t believe this quiet, humble little village had suffered such horrors just hours before we’d arrived. “But why would anyone want to attack Nickajack just for the sake of it?” I asked. As terrible as robbery was, I could understand why greedy people took things. But destroying families’ homes for no reason or gain?
Mr. McKay leaned his elbows on the table, his pipe cupped in one hand. “It isn’t just Nickajack,” he answered, at the same time pulling a rolled-up newspaper out of his vest pocket and laying it open on the table. “There are reports of raids and attacks all across Cherokee Country.”
As Wattie slid the newspaper across the table, I leaned over to get a glimpse of the heading. There were some strange, curly letters across the top. Then printed beneath them in all caps CHEROKEE PHOENIX, AND INDIANS’ ADVOCATE, and below that in slightly smaller print, NEW ECHOTA, THURSDAY OCTOBER 16, 1828.
I nudged Imogen and drew her eyes towards the year.
To my horror, she shrieked, “1828? That’s impossible!”
I gave her a kick under the table, and she got the message that she should stop talking. But Mr. McKay and Wattie were both eyeing us with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. How was I going to smooth this one over?
“I know,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Can you believe it’s 1828 already? Seems like only yesterday it was 1827…” The nervous laugh escaped me again. I gulped and tried to evade Wattie’s and Mr. McKay’s eyes.
The awkward moment was interrupted by a knock at the door. Mr. McKay and Wattie were on their feet in a flash, but before they could take a step, the maid and Ulma were at the door.
Grasshopper walked in, accompanied by a very sombre-looking older Cherokee man. His long greying hair fell from beneath a turban wrapped around his head. His hard, brown face was etched with deep wrinkles and made me think of the wood carvings I’d seen at the Cherokee gift shop that morning.
The man did not smile as he greeted Ulma in their own language, then clasped hands with Mr. McKay and Wattie. He seemed to be looking for someone else as he advanced into the dining room. I swallowed when his eyes fell on us and he made straight for us.
The man stood statue still except for his eyes, which flicked back and forth between the two of us. There was silence as everyone in the doorway waited to see what he would do. In a flash, the gangly Grasshopper appeared at the man’s side.
“These are the girls from the forest, Father,” Grasshopper told him, “the ones who saved Crow Feather.”
Forgetting my nerves, I looked at Grasshopper, eager to know. “You mean Crow Feather’s all right?” I asked.
The scrawny, brown boy grinned and nodded. “He sleeps still, but he will live.” He gestured to the man. “My father, Terrapin Jo. He wishes to thank you.”
The older man held out his hand. I glanced at Grasshopper, who was nodding encouragingly and placed my hand into the big, rough one. “Wado,” the man said, bowing his head slightly. Then he did the exact same thing to Imogen, saying “Wado” once again.
“It was nothing, really,” I said faintly. I felt limp with relief. Our first day in 1828 had been one long series of disasters. And yet, here we were, safe inside the McKay home, and we’d played a part in saving a man’s life. What if – the idea flickered faintly, but stirred up a rush of hope – what if I had come here for a purpose, just like last time. What if falling into 1828 wasn’t just an accident after all?
10
The Woman and the Snake
The crackling fire, the soft creak of Ulma’s rocking chair where she sat darning socks, the men’s lowered voices as they smoked their pipes and discussed the events of the day, everything about the McKay’s sitting room was conspiring against me. They were talking about Lieutenant Lovegood and what was to be done.
I tried desperately to follow the conversation, but my eyelids felt as heavy as horseshoes. Imogen was already softly snoring beside me on the settee, her head slumped over against my shoulder. It had been such a long day, I felt I was not far behind her.
Terrapin Jo was speaking, his voice low like distant thunder, but bitter. “If these raids continue, there will be no food for the winter. Some in the Council believe we will have to leave this land.” He was shaking his head. “Things have gone from bad to worse for us ever since Jim Weaver stole the Uktena Stone.”
My ears perked up. I’d heard of that stone before … but where? I was alert now, my full attention on what the men were saying.
“Joe, Joe.” Mr. McKay was shaking his head now. “I know you’re still angry about Jim. We were all hurt by his betrayal. But you can’t actually believe that stone has anything to do with all of this … with Lieutenant Lovegood and Crow Feather?”
I sat up a little straighter and cleared my throat. “What stone is that?” I asked, trying to sound innocently curious.
An uncomfortable silence followed in which Wattie and Grasshopper both seemed suddenly interested in their hands resting in their laps and Terrapin Jo just glared with eyes as hard as steel into the fire.
I was just about to say it didn’t matter after all when Mr. McKay answered. “It is a legendary stone, called the Uktena Stone, or Serpent’s Stone.”
Without opening her eyes, Imogen stirred beside me. “I hate snakes,” she whimpered, and flopped over to lean against the settee, allowing me to sit up completely.
With another weary smile, Wattie’s father continued. “About eight years ago, the stone went missing.”
“It was stolen,” Terrapin Jo thundered under his breath.
“It is believed that a man by the name of Jim Weaver stole the stone. He was a man we all trusted. We counted him as one of us.”
I shot a glance at Terrapin Jo. He glowered more darkly than ever.
“At any rate,” Mr. McKay continued, “after the stone went missing, the serious troubles started for us here in Nickajack. Many believe it’s because the stone was no longer giving us its protection. But I reckon,” he cast his eyes at Terrapin Jo, “things would’ve got worse, stone or no stone. These mountains are crawling with horse thieves and greedy prospectors who consider this land as theirs for the taking if they can only bully the Cherokee off of it.”
I wanted to ask more about this Serpent’s Stone and why it mattered so much to the Cherokee, but something told me it would be better to drop the topic. Instead I asked, “But isn’t there anyone who can stop the bullies? I mean, what they’re doing is against the law, isn’t it?”
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br /> “Washington sent us Lieutenant Lovegood to stop them,” Wattie answered with a flash of hot anger in his eyes. “But he proved to be the biggest scoundrel of them all.”
“If Lovegood sets foot in Nickajack, he will pay,” Grasshopper echoed, cracking his knobbly knuckles threateningly.
Mr. McKay held up his hands to silence the boys. “Making him pay is not our responsibility. This matter must go to the Governor. He is the United States’ representative to the Cherokee people, and we must keep peace with the United States. If they see Cherokee Country as a lawless place, the president may very well withdraw all protection, and that would be the end of us.”
Wattie perched on the edge of his chair, looking as excited as a kid at a theme park. “Grasshopper and I will go to Hiwassee Garrison to see the Governor. We’ll tell him everything that happened today.”
Grasshopper was nodding his head enthusiastically, but Mr. McKay was shaking his. “You’ll do no such thing, William,” he said sharply. It was strange how he kept calling Wattie William when the boy clearly preferred his Cherokee name. “Your duty is to stay right here, continuing with your studies and helping me at the shop. People depend on our honest trade more than ever these days.”
“But—”
Before Wattie could argue, his father stood up. “That’s final, William.”
Flush faced, Wattie clenched his jaw and looked away from his father.
“The Governor is due for his visit here in a month’s time. The Council will take up the matter with him then. Meanwhile, we must all remain vigilant and carry on as before.”
Ulma’s calm voice interrupted her husband’s speech. She said something to him in Cherokee, and he nodded. When he spoke, his voice had changed, sounding almost cheerful. “Ulma is right. We should all get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is the Stomp Dance, and the good Lord knows it is more important than ever that we preserve our traditions and keep hope alive.”