by Mez Blume
“But that takes years of practice.” He handed me the cane and the pouch. “Just see how far you can get the dart.”
I took them, a wild idea forming in my mind. “If I hit the bullseye, will you take Imogen and me with you to Hiwassee Garrison?”
Wattie smirked, then gave me an appraising look. “Ok,” he said at last. “You hit the bullseye – on your first shot – and I’ll take you along.”
“And Imogen,” I added.
“Of course. We wouldn’t leave your cousin the Skunk behind.”
“All right then.” Pretending more confidence that I felt, I did exactly what I’d seen Wattie do, loading the little dart into the pipe, and holding the end up to my mouth with both hands. I took a deep, steadying breath, fixed my eyes on the bullseye, and blew the biggest burst of air I could muster.
I don’t know who was more shocked, me or Wattie, when the very next second, my dart appeared smack dab inside the red circle. Both of our mouths fell open as we gawked at the bullseye. I’d actually done it! Before Wattie could find his voice, I pulled myself together, handed him back the blowgun, and said, as if hitting the bullseye was all in a day’s work, “Well, I guess I’d better go tell Imogen we’ll be off tonight.”
12
Little Beaver’s Help
The sun was only just fully up and already I’d managed to find out a little more about the mysterious Uktena Stone and persuade Wattie to take us along on his journey. Now all I had to do was get Imogen on board. How hard could that be? I thought, trying to keep up my optimistic streak.
I found Imogen apparently just waking up, sitting crossedlegged in bed with her forehead in her hands. She peered blearily from under her hand at me and groaned. “I was sure it would all turn out to be just a terrible dream,” she croaked.
“’Fraid not,” I said, plopping down on the bed. “But I think I may have some good news.”
She dropped her hands, leaving her hair in a wild mess. “PLEASE tell me you’ve found a way home.”
“Well not exactly that,” I began. But before I could say another word, the wild-looking Imogen growled and started rummaging in the folds of the quilt.
“Where is it? Oh my gosh, where is it?” she shrieked, looking wilder still, now on all fours, scrambling up and down the bed.
“Where’s what?”
She sat back on her heels and looked at me like I was as thick as a brick. “My phone! It was right here all night, right beside my head!”
“We’ve been over this, Imogen,” I answered grumpily, but tossing the pillows aside to appease her. “Your phone is useless here.”
“It doesn’t matter!” she said in a high voice, her head popping up from the side of the bed where she’d been searching the floor. “Katie, don’t you get it? That phone is the only thing I have from home. It’s got my entire life on it. All my photos, all my texts from Poppy and … and Mum and Dad.” She sank back down onto the downy mattress. “I don’t care if it works here. It’s going to work when we go back, and I need to have it with me when we do.”
I stared at Imogen. She looked much younger, hunched over like that, wearing an oversized nightgown. “I do get it,” I said finally. The truth was, though I still thought Imogen’s phone obsession was a bit pathetic, I really did know how she felt, desperate to cling to any little piece of home. I had felt that way last time about my little Sherlock Holmes book that Charlie had given me. It had been my lucky charm while I was stuck in the past … a reminder of the people I loved back home … a tiny little spark of hope that I would get back to them somehow.
I reached out my hand, feeling awkward, and touched Imogen’s shoulder. “We’ll find your phone. Don’t worry.”
She sniffed. “Well it’s not here. Somebody must’ve taken it in the night.”
Just at that moment, a little giggle from behind made us swivel around. Little Beaver’s grinning face disappeared behind the door in a flash.
“Immy, do you think maybe Little Beaver…?”
Imogen had had the same thought. She was on her feet and out the door in a flash. I followed, thinking we’d have bigger fish to fry if any of the adults discovered the mobile phone before we did. Explaining it would require some serious creativity.
We chased Little Beaver down the hall where she dashed into the kitchen. Someone – probably Ulma or the maid – was busy inside.
“Wait,” I said, gesturing to Imogen to be quiet. Next minute, Little Beaver reappeared in the hall carrying some strange contraption. She held it up proudly to show us. I could have laughed. It was Imogen’s phone all right, but it was acting as a chair. The little girl had tied a cornhusk baby doll to it with a piece of twine. Imogen held out her hands to Little Beaver, but the little girl spun on her bare feet and ran for the door at the end of the hall, waving us to follow before she disappeared.
We tiptoed passed the kitchen, then broke into a run, just managing to avoid a collision with the maid who was coming through the door with a basket full of linens.
“Sorry!” I called over my shoulder as I followed the pursuit across the lawn. Imogen was gaining on Little Beaver, but as the little girl raced towards the trees, the ground became pebbly, and Imogen, who hadn’t bothered to put on shoes, was forced to pick her way slowly and painfully across the rocks. “Ow!” She winced. “How does she do that?”
I had my moccasins on and was able to keep up a bit better, but Little Beaver seemed not even to notice the rocks beneath her little feet. She reached the edge of a stream, flashed a smiled at us, then squatted down beside the water. “Oh no,” I muttered. So that was her game – Imogen’s phone would be the doll’s canoe. She was going to drop it into the water.
Imogen must have had the same realisation. “Stop! Little Beaver, NO!” she howled, pushing past me. Little Beaver recognised the word “no”; she stopped and looked around a little uncertainly. That gave Imogen just enough time to reach the bank and snatch the phone, doll and all, out of a surprised Little Beaver’s hands. I caught up just in time to hear Imogen’s exuberant “Yes!” But Little Beaver’s face was quickly changing from shocked to traumatised. As Imogen hugged the phone, the little girl dropped into a squat and started to bawl.
Imogen froze. “Oh great. Now what do I do?”
“Give her the doll back,” I urged her.
She quickly ripped the piece of twine off to free the doll from the phone and held it out in front of Little Beaver. She stopped crying long enough to look up at Imogen with terror in her eyes, then burst into a second wave of tears.
“She’s going to wake up the whole village!” Imogen said, looking at me desperately. “Wait, I have an idea.” She bent down beside Little Beaver and got the little girl’s attention. Then, holding out a strand of her hair, she said slowly, “Little Beaver, would you like to play with my hair?” She mimed pulling a comb through her hair and nodded, smiling. Little Beaver seemed to understand. A wide smile broke out on her tear-stained face and she nodded enthusiastically. Next minute, she had Imogen by the hand, dragging her back across the river rocks towards the house.
Once Little Beaver had installed Imogen back in the bedroom, she ran off and came right back with a comb and a little clay pot and happily set to work on Imogen’s hair. I didn’t take any chances but dove straight into telling Imogen about my conversation with Wattie that morning.
“So the plan is,” I said, finally getting to it, “we leave tonight, just after the Stomp Dance.”
Imogen’s head was bobbing up and down with each stroke of Little Beaver’s comb. “So… you’re saying you think we should follow the trail of this snake stone thing,” she made a disgusted face, “because that’s somehow going to lead us to a way home?”
“I think it could lead us to the answer. If we could get that stone back to Nickajack, maybe it would help the Cherokees.”
Imogen grimaced as Little Beaver yanked. “And if we can’t?”
“Well then we can at least testify to the Governor about what
we saw. We’re the only witnesses, after all. It might make all the difference.”
“Who cares if we make a difference, Katie? We just need to get home.”
“I just have a feeling―” I began, but Imogen cut me off.
“A feeling worth risking our lives for?”
“A feeling,” I continued, “that helping this village may be the reason we’re here.”
Imogen rolled her eyes. “What do you mean, the reason? It’s not like we’re supposed to be here. It was an accident, obviously.”
“Maybe it wasn’t,” I argued, wishing I could have a go at yanking Imogen’s hair. “Last time, at Otterly Manor, I thought it was an accident, but Tom Tippery said I was there for a purpose … to help Sophia.”
“Katie,” Imogen paused. She looked thoughtful, like she was chewing over what I’d said. At last she said, “That’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Stop trying to be the hero, would you? Tom Tipp-a-thingy probably told you that to make you feel better.”
I clenched my fists at my side, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Well whether he did or didn’t, if I hadn’t tried to help, I’d never have found him, and I’d probably still be there now. So maybe,” I drew a deep breath and let it out, “maybe if we try to help now, it will lead us to a way home.”
“I’m still not convinced. I think we should stay here where it’s safe until we have something real to go by.”
“Wattie’s going,” I said, quickly changing tactics. “You said you thought he was cute.”
“Not cute enough to risk my life for.”
“Fine,” I said, giving up. “You can stay here and play with—” I stopped. I had just noticed Little Beaver dipping her hand into the pot and rubbing some kind of white paste in Imogen’s hair. “What’s that she’s putting in your hair?”
Imogen reached up and touched her head, then pulled her hand away and looked at a glob of goo on her fingers. She gagged. “Little Beaver,” her voice quavered. She twisted around to look the little girl in the eye and pointed to the clay pot. “What. Is. This?” she asked, emphasising every word.
I was surprised when Little Beaver answered in a perfect imitation of Imogen, emphasising each of her words with a nod of her head. “Bear. Fat.”
Imogen froze. I was afraid for a second that she was going to explode at the poor little girl again. Thankfully, she just turned back with her lips pursed tight together as if she were trying not to be sick. After a second, she took a deep breath. “Fine,” she said in a defeated voice. “I’ll go with you.” Then, with her usual feistiness, added, “But Katie, don’t you dare get us killed.”
13
Stomp Dance
The sun was setting with a spectacular show of colours as we set off with Wattie’s family for the stomp dance. Mr. McKay had gone off hours earlier along with Terrapin Jo to meet with the Chief and other council members, but Grasshopper and his mother, Ulma’s sister, had come to help carry the baskets of food Ulma had spent the day preparing.
As Wattie hitched the horses to an old wooden wagon and helped his mother and aunt onto the driver’s bench, Grasshopper sneaked up behind Imogen and me with his usual knack for not making any noise. We both jumped.
“Gosh. Could you give some kind of warning before you just appear?” Imogen said in a huff.
Grasshopper, who seemed in a very good mood, grinned and replied, “You mean like this?” He cupped his hands over his mouth and made a loud, high-pitched bird call.
Imogen covered her ears and moved away, scowling at him. “Just ‘hello’ or ‘excuse me’ would work just fine.”
Grasshopper sidled over to her and leaned in so the women in the wagon couldn’t hear. “What’s wrong, Dilli? You are not looking forward to our journey together?”
“Don’t call me that,” Imogen snapped. Her scowl turned on Wattie who was offering his hand to help her into the wagon. Ignoring his hand, she muttered over her shoulder to me, “I can still change my mind, you know,” then hoisted herself up onto the bench beside Little Beaver. I climbed up beside her, balancing a basket of hot selu cakes – the corn cakes we’d had the night before – and a clay dish of dumpling-like bean fry bread, fresh from the skillet and still steaming. Little Beaver reached across Imogen and snatched a sticky dumpling in her chubby little hand.
“Please don’t put that in my hair,” Imogen said, watching the little girl out the corner of her eye as she happily nibbled on the doughy lump. “It took me half the day with my head under the ice cold water pump to get that bear grease out.”
I could see Imogen was in a mood. I would have to be careful or she really might change her mind. “You know the boys were just having a laugh,” I said lightly. “It’s probably because they secretly really like you.”
She rolled her eyes, but I thought I detected just a hint of a smile on the corner of her mouth. I’d just have to keep her smiling a little longer. The plan was that we would break away from the stomp dance about midnight, while the others were still in the thick of the festivities. Just a few hours to go. In the meantime, I wanted to take in every aspect of life in Cherokee Country.
As we rumbled down the dirt road in the wagon, I became fascinated by the sights and smells of Nickajack. Families were coming out of their cabins, weighed down with baskets and pots of their own, joining the procession winding its way down the road. Excited children whooped at their friends and ran ahead of their mothers, who walked nimbly and gracefully in their long, beaded skirts. But it was the men who stood out, dressed for the special occasion in their colourful tunics and wampum belts. Some of them wore turbans like Terrapin Jo, but others’ heads were shaved except for a long braid or painted feathers on the crest of their scalps. Many had painted their faces with red and black war paint and wore all kinds of silver jewelry, nose rings and earrings. If I’d met men looking like that in the forest, I’d have run for my life. But here in friendly Nickajack, I thought they were simply fascinating.
Many people waved to Ulma and her sister as we rode past, then craned to get a good look at Imogen and me in the back seat, clearly as fascinated by two strange white girls as I was by them.
We arrived at a great open meadow at the end of the village, between a sea of cornstalks on one side and bluish mountains lined in gold from the sunset on the other, and followed Ulma to drop off our bundles on some trestle tables already piled with food.
“Let’s see if we can find Wattie and Grasshopper,” I said into Imogen’s ear, then fell in among the jostling and happy chatter.
A large group of people were gathered together, evidently watching something. “Ooh, this must be the stickball game!” I said, pushing forward to the front of the crowd. “Wattie said he and Grasshopper were playing.”
We finally wormed our way to the front of the crowd, then quickly stumbled back again as a stampede of shouting men and boys came hurtling towards us like a runaway train. Wattie was in front, sweaty and shirtless and holding up what looked like a wooden lacrosse stick. He had the ball!
He dodged his attackers with the agility of a jackrabbit, then spotted Grasshopper, who was waving his arms wildly halfway down the field, open for the pass. Wattie cocked back with the stick and let the ball fly, and not a second too soon. A millisecond later, Wattie was pig piled by a herd of some very large, very fierce looking men. But the tactic had worked! Grasshopper caught the ball in his own basket and shot off down the field unopposed as the other team were still scrambling to get up from the pile. His gangly legs moved in a blur right to the end of the field where he slowed, drew his stick back behind his head, then catapulted the ball through the air where it pinged off of a wooden fish at the top of a pole. The crowd went wild.
The excitement was catching, and I found myself jumping up and down.
Imogen, who, I’d heard, was something of a star on her school lacrosse team, was having none of it. With her arms crossed over her chest and a superior look on her face, she leaned over. “They must be joking if they
think they’re playing lacrosse. They’ve just completely ignored about six different rules of the game. They should just leave it to the English to do it properly.”
“Actually,” I said, feeling a little indignant, “my dad told me the Native Americans invented it. The English just nicked it and changed the name.”
Imogen looked cross and grumbled, “Well, they’re certainly not playing it right. I could give them a few pointers. For example—”
But before she got the chance to give any examples, the game was over, and we were being swept along with the moving crowd.
“Where is everyone going?” Imogen shouted over the excited murmur.
I stood on my tiptoes to get a better look ahead. “I see Wattie’s family! Come on.”
Mr. McKay spotted us and waved us over. “Ah, there you are, lasses. I’ve saved you seats with our clan.” He escorted us over to a wooden structure covering several rows of benches where Ulma, her sister and Little Beaver welcomed us. The rest of the crowd too were finding seats in structures like ours all along the outside of a big square of smooth, red dirt. “This is the Stomp Ground,” Mr. McKay explained. “And that there,” he pointed to a smoking mound in the middle of the dirt square, “is the sacred fire.”
Imogen raised an eyebrow. “What’s so sacred about it?”
“Don’t you know?” Mr. McKay looked excited by the opportunity to impart some cultural knowledge. “The Cherokee are the People of the Fire. The Sacred Fire must never be allowed to go out. As long as it burns, there’s hope for the Cherokee.”
“Which is why Katie Fire-Hair is a welcome visitor!” Wattie added as he and Grasshopper slid onto the bench in front of me. They were still red faced and sweaty, but at least they’d put on their tunics and belts. “Come along, Katie Fire-Hair. You can be my partner for the quail dance.”