Jerking it back, she spilled more water on herself. Then she spoke in Iroquois. Her voice was harsh, and her face appeared disagreeable. Whatever she said, it wasn’t good.
She spun back toward the creek and bent down to fill the bucket.
He kneeled beside her, dipping his bucket in the stream as well.
“I truly am sorry.” Why did these things keep happening? With Adsila? Was he doomed to forever disappoint this woman? “Not just for this, but for whatever I did to make you so mad at me.”
She said something else in Iroquois.
“I really don't like it when you all do that to me.” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended.
She stood straight up and fairly spat back at him. “There are plenty of things about your people we don't like.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked away.
“What?” He fumbled. Why had she said that?
As quickly as possible, he was on his feet and chasing after her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You are close-minded,” she said, still a few steps ahead of him.
He quickened his pace to catch up. “If I'm so close-minded, why is it that I was willing to listen to your father speak of your religion, but you won't give me the same courtesy?”
She turned on him and stared, folding her arms in front of her chest. What was he in for now? Another cursing in Iroquois?
He stopped, still several steps short of where she stood.
They stood staring at each other.
“Well?” she said.
“Well, what?” He tilted his head. Had he missed something?
She pushed out a sigh and rolled her eyes as if she were dealing with a small, annoying child. “I will listen. Speak.”
He glanced from side to side. They were hardly in an appropriate place for such a conversation. “Here?”
“Is there something wrong, Mr. Greyson?” Something in her tone challenged him.
He crossed his arms. “I would prefer somewhere that's not in the middle of the path.”
She let out another breath and took his arm, pulling him farther from the creek.
The contact took him by surprise, but he followed her.
They drew near a tall oak not far from the path.
Setting her bucket down, she settled herself next to the large tree trunk.
He looked down on her for a moment. Had she truly all but dragged him over here? Why? Because he had spoken to her challenge? Did she intend to sit and let him speak? Or would she bite back with heated comments at his attempts?
She raised a hand and indicated the patch of grass in front of her.
He lowered himself into a cross-legged position. Dare he try? If so, where would he start?
“It begins,” he said on an exhale, “With God. He created the heavens and the earth…” He told her as briefly as he could about Adam and Eve and how sin came into the world. Then he continued. Telling her of Abraham and the promise, about Jesus, the promised Messiah, who came and died for our sins that we might once again commune with God and be righteous in His eyes.
She did not utter a sound as he spoke. Was it possible she listened?
This was the longest they had spent in each other’s company without a harsh word.
He finished telling her about Jesus's resurrection, how He conquered death for all time, and that He would return one day to take those who had accepted His gift of salvation to heaven.
Still, there was silence. No thoughts. No questions.
Inclining his head toward her, he resisted the urge to rub his hands on his knees. Was it awkward for her, the two of them just sitting here now? What should he say?
Her voice cut into the moment. “There is a Cherokee legend about God, Ye ho waah. The story says that Ye ho waah came down in the form of man. Just as you say.”
“I thought your Cherokee word for God was Uh-net-lahn-vee?” he tried the unfamiliar word.
“Unetlanvhi is the Great Spirit.”
“I don't understand.” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee.
“The Cherokee believe in one God, Ye ho waah. But Ye ho waah consists of three 'god heads': The Great Spirit, Ye ho waah in the form of a man, and Ye ho waah.”
“So, do you worship three gods?”
She shook her head. “No, Ye ho waah is one.”
His heartbeat quickened and his pulse raced. “This is much like the Trinity”
She nodded. Could she see it, too?
“Then perhaps they are one and the same.”
“Perhaps.” She shrugged. “But I think the elders will find it more difficult to agree with you. Like Father, many cling to the last shreds of our culture.”
Thomas nodded. His heart dropped. So heavy the sensation it made his stomach turn.
She shifted to rise. “I must go. Thank you for telling me.”
He hurried to his feet. “Thank you for listening. And for telling me of Ye ho waah.”
She nodded. Then turned and walked away.
As he watched her go, he wondered after these similar stories of Jesus and Ye ho waah.
When she glanced over her shoulder, his face warmed. She had caught him staring.
Still, as she continued along the path that took her farther toward the meadow, he was unable to tear his gaze away.
****
Walter Buckner sat, notebook clenched in his hands as he watched the Senate floor below. The movement of the senators as they spoke, even berated each other…it was like a dance. A political dance. Would he ever be suited for it? Or, in the end, did he care too much for his passions, his ideology to—
“Hey, Walter.” The voice jarred him as someone settled into the seat next to him.
He turned toward the sound. Harry. What did he want? The man seemed somewhat obsessed with Walter. Why? They didn’t agree on much of anything. Did he think Walter would further his political career somehow? That had to be it. But what did Walter possess that was of benefit to Harry?
Something to think on. Until then, there would be nothing gained from animosity.
“Hey,” Walter whispered in reply, but he turned back to the action going on below their position on the balcony. No need to miss anything.
The senator from Tennessee stepped forward. He’d been waiting for this.
“What's happening?” Harry leaned in, his shoulder brushing Walter’s.
“Shhh!” Walter focused on the senator, but his statement had been brief. And he now turned to sit.
Walter sighed. Though he’d wanted to hear the man, this wasn’t the most crucial meeting.
He leaned toward Harry. “Nothing important. That new financial bill.”
“Ah. Any discussion about the Indian situation?” Harry wasn’t one to mask his point with his cohorts. Save that for the constituents. No matter, Walter preferred his directness.
“Some. Nothing of any consequence.” He waved a hand and reached for his satchel.
“Senator Jamison said the president was rather pleased with the Choctaw removal. He hopes to model the others after it.”
Walter stared at Harry. He couldn’t be serious. Had President Jackson truly believed that went well? Did Harry agree this was appropriate progress?
“What?” Harry leaned back. Was Walter’s gaze so intense? He didn’t regret it.
“All those people, freezing in the cold… with barely enough food to eat? And what of the Vicksburg group? Lost in the Lake Providence swamps for God knows how long with that incompetent government appointed guide.”
“Come now, Walter. Stop being so melodramatic. They're just…” His sentence trailed off. Did he not wish to speak it out loud? His prejudice?
“Say it, Harry, say it. ‘They're just Indians.’ That's what you were going to say, isn't it?” Walter's voice rose, and his face warmed.
“Calm down.” Harry looked from side to side. Did he only care if they drew unwanted attention? “You've been listening to Senator Frelinghuysen a little too much.”
If he intended to shame Walter with this, he was wrong. A lump pressed into Walter’s throat. Could he speak past it? Surely his features reflected the color of the heat that overcame him. “And you've not been listening enough. You're out of touch with reality if you think what happened to those people was humane.” He pounded his fist against his thigh, his eyes and face tight.
“I'm going to urge you to calm down one more time,” Harry said, raising his chin. Was he as confident as he tried to make himself appear? Walter wagered it was a show.
“Or else?” Walter half laughed as he challenged his colleague.
“Or else, I'm going to leave.” Harry puffed out his chest.
“No need.” Walter grabbed his notebook and shoved it into his bag. “I'll go.”
With that, he stood and made his way out of the Senate chambers, fuming as he went.
****
Thomas prepared himself for the school day. Leaning over the water bowl, he moved a blade across his face.
The door creaked.
He jerked his head toward the intrusion, nicking himself in the process.
Though he had been startled at first, he wasn't altogether surprised to see Atohi standing in the open doorway. He had no respect for privacy.
“Ah, pretty, pretty face!” Atohi’s mouth spread across his features.
Smiling back, Thomas nodded. Tempted to ask the man to knock next time, he bit his lip. It would be a waste of breath.
“What brings you to my humble cabin at this hour?” Thomas shifted his focus back to his water bowl and raised his blade once more.
“Good, strong cabin,” Atohi argued. “Maybe small, but sturdy.”
“Yes, yes.” Thomas sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. Why did the man take everything so literally? “You are right.” He lifted his gaze to catch Atohi’s eyes. “That still doesn't answer my question.”
Atohi arched a brow. “Come to see how school.”
Thomas waited for him to finish. But the silence lingered. Perhaps that was the entire statement. What could he mean—how school? How is school? Maybe.
He swallowed and supposed so. “It goes well,” Thomas said, making a final swipe with the blade before shifting to watch Atohi again.
The man eyed some of Thomas’s whittling projects displayed on a small shelf.
“I enjoy the children, and it seems they are learning.” Thomas closed the blade and set it down.
“Hope my son is good student.”
“Mohe? He is an excellent student.” Thomas splashed water on his face. The remainder of the soap dripped into the bowl, and all was removed with a thin towel.
“How you like life in village?” Now Atohi’s dark eyes were fixed on Thomas. Such intensity.
“I enjoy it more every day, I think. I have made a new acquaintance.” He dropped the towel by the bowl and quirked his mouth
Atohi’s features contorted into a rather quizzical expression. “Acquaintance?” The word came out a bit awkward.
“Acquaintance… friend. In English, we use different words to describe friendships—close friends, best friends, and acquaintances—more distant friends.”
“Ah,” Atohi said, but he didn't seem to understand.
“The farmer that lives over the hill, not far from the creek. I think his name is…” Why couldn’t he recall the man’s name?
“Gawonii.” Atohi rescued Thomas’s troubled memory. “I know. I have heard.”
“Heard?” Thomas's eyebrows shot up. What should he make of that? “Good things? Or bad?”
Atohi shrugged. “Why must be good or bad? Why cannot just be?”
Thomas rolled his eyes. Atohi could be so aggravating. “His son, Tsiyi, is in my class, but the daughter, Adsila, is not.” His heart skipped a beat. Looking away from Atohi, he busied himself with his satchel. Did his features betray his interest? He hoped not.
“No. She is of age.”
“Of age?” Thomas paused, turning back toward his friend.
“To be wife.” Atohi smiled
“Ah.” Thomas tried to ignore the slight twinge that ran along his spine.
“She will make good wife. Good with herbs. Maybe best garden in whole village.”
“Really?” Thomas looked up from the books he was loading into his bag.
“Do not understand 'really'.”
“It's a question that means…” Thomas started, but lost his words. How did one explain ‘really’? “It’s not important.” He returned to his packing, but his thoughts were on Adsila.
Atohi's deep voice broke in. “I think it is time to go to schoolhouse.”
Thomas glanced at his pocket watch and groaned. His students would be there before him.
School would not start for thirty minutes, but all his students came early. And if he wanted to be the first one at the schoolhouse, which he preferred, he had to get there thirty minutes before school started.
“I thank you for your visit.” Thomas nodded at his friend as he rose to his full height.
Atohi nodded. “Wife expect you to dinner tonight.”
“Tell her I'll be there.”
His friend nodded again and stepped out of the cabin, leaving Thomas rushing to pull himself together.
****
Adsila pulled her blue dress from its place in her nook. Tugging it on, she readied herself in a hurry. Her hands moved over the folds of the thin material, but her thoughts drifted to her conversation with Thomas the day before.
Father did not talk much about Ye ho waah in human form. This story about Jesus was new. Could it be true? All of it? Could there be sin in her that she must be saved from? Or was this only for the white man? She did not feel bad or evil. Wasn’t she a good person? Did she truly need saving?
The more she thought on it, the more questions arose. But, she pushed those thoughts to the side and focused on readying herself for the day.
Mere moments passed before she stepped into the great room, hair braided and face washed. She moved to the dish cabinet, pulling the small door open to reveal the modest plates.
Mother brushed past her, carrying steaming food to the table. She continued on to the door and, swinging it open, yelled for Father.
Tsiyi limped toward the dining room table, the uneven rhythm of his footfalls pulling Adsila’s attention briefly from her task.
Offering him a small smile, Mother pulled his chair out and spooned food onto his plate as soon as Adsila set it in front of him.
“Your ankle should have healed long ago. If you wouldn't insist on playing so!” Mother clicked her tongue against her teeth.
He nodded, tilting his head down, his shoulders tucked.
Mother looked to Adsila. “You’ve been wearing that dress quite a bit lately.”
Adsila's hands flew to the pleats at her waist. Why should she be favoring any dress in particular? If anything, she had trouble not over-wearing her red dress. Perhaps that's it. She had focused on not wearing her red dress as much and started grabbing for the blue one.
Mother turned and heaped food onto Father's plate.
Shrugging it off, Adsila filled her own plate. Then it struck her—this was the dress she wore the night Thomas Greyson came for dinner. He had said 'nice dress.' At the time, he meant to comment on having seen her wearing the deerskin dress earlier that day, but…
No, she was overthinking this. He was not the reason she donned this dress with greater frequency.
The door opened.
Father, coming in from the field.
He sat, and they began their dinner ritual.
Still, thoughts of the dress and why she might be wearing it more often continued to nag her.
****
Pushing his pen across the paper became tiresome to Senator Frelinghuysen. Was it truly the only thing left for him to do? This battle. This overwhelming battle seemingly became bigger by the week. And no one else, it seemed, would step forward to help him and the few senators who would stand against Pr
esident Jackson on behalf of the innocents.
But if writing letters was all that was left to him, then that was what Frelinghuysen would do. What he had done. For the better part of the day.
Charlotte had left that morning for her myriad of meetings. What was it today? The booster club? Church fundraiser? Lunch with friends? He could not remember what kept her busy these days. But he heard the front door open and shut moments ago.
In his eagerness to speak with her, he summoned a maid and sent her after Charlotte. He hoped she would not be overtired.
The lightest raps possible sounded on his door. How had he not heard her on the steps?
“Come,” he called.
He remained hunched over this last letter. It would only take one more moment to complete.
Pushing the door open, she stepped within.
A thick pause filled the space. She did not often come into his office. In fact, he could number them on one hand. Perhaps she was uncertain.
He opened his mouth to reassure her, but she breached the silence before he could.
“Darling?” Her voice only just above a whisper.
He turned, wishing to offer her a smile. But his features would not make one.
She did not move. Was she holding her breath?
“I'm glad you’re home.” He stood and crossed the space to greet her with an embrace.
She wrapped her arms around him, losing her breath. Still, she remained rather unyielding. Had this summons unnerved her? It had been unlike him. Was she so concerned?
“I understand you had quite the morning.” He pulled back and looked over her. There was tension around her eyes, but she managed a small smile.
“Yes, it was. But you…” She seemed to gain some confidence. “You're home!”
As well perhaps he should not be. Would he best serve his constituents and the Indians at the Capitol?
Her features dropped. “Please, tell me what has happened, Theodore.”
“I do not wish to weigh you down with the details of—” Why had he summoned her? To brighten his day? To worry her? Or to indeed share these very things with her? If not, then why?
“But it burdens you. Let me share that load.”
How could he protect her if he bared all of what had occurred? Let her believe the papers. But she was his wife. Who better to understand? Hadn’t they promised to walk these hard roads together?
Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage) Page 5