by Lois Lenski
Slowly Molly raised her swollen, tear-stained face. No, it was neither of the two Indian sisters—it was only an Indian boy. It was the same boy she had seen in the crowd about the fire when she arrived the night before. He had soft brown eyes and they made her think of Davy Wheelock.
She stared at him from head to foot. He wore deerskin leggings and waist-cloth, but his broad, brown shoulders were bare. His black hair hung loose to his shoulders. His forehead was low and his eyes were narrow. He had a quiver of arrows strapped on his back and he held a bow in his hand. He looked at Molly sympathetically. Then he pointed to his bow, making motions as if to ask where his arrow went.
Molly rose from her seat and looked beyond the tree where she was sitting. In a moment she had found the arrow beside the bush and brought it back. She held it in her hand and looked at it. A shaft of red willow it was, with a sharp bone point and red feathers fastened on at the end. She handed it back to the Indian boy and saw a broad smile spread over his face.
She sat down again disconsolately. She leaned against the tree and the tears began to come. He was only an Indian boy. He was the same size as Davy Wheelock, but his skin was red and his words were Indian. She listened as he spoke. He pointed to his bow and arrow and seemed to be talking about them, but the words, to Molly, sounded harsh, strange and meaningless.
Then a sturdy red hand found her own and gave it a tug. The Indian boy, with swift determination, pulled the girl to her feet. He pointed out the direction and started off. Slowly Molly lifted her feet to follow. He was taking her back to the Indian village and she didn’t want to go. He kept just a step ahead, turning now and again to make sure that she was coming. Each time he turned, he smiled a smile of encouragement.
She hadn’t gone far at all. By the path that the Indian boy took, it was only a short way back to the village. The deep forest was left behind and the two came into the thicket. There at the edge was the spring and the water vessel where Molly had left it.
The boy flung himself down on the ground, made a cup of his hands under the dripping water and drank. Then he motioned to Molly and she did the same. How good the spring water tasted! She was thirsty and had not known it. She washed her face in the water and it felt fresh and cooling.
The boy pointed to the filled water vessel and, obediently, Molly took it up. The water was heavy, but he did not offer to help. He walked on ahead and once more she followed at his heels. Soon they were back at the lodge. Molly set the vessel down and watched the boy, as he ran off toward his home. She watched to see which lodge he entered. She saw him stop beside the door, turn and smile, then disappear from sight.
With a deep sigh, Molly picked up the vessel of water and walked slowly into the lodge.
6
A Singing Bird
“TELL HER…TO MAKE ME…a cambric shirt, Without any seams…or needlework…Tell her …to wash it…in yonder well…Where never spring water…nor rain ever fell.
LITTLE TURTLE, THE INDIAN boy, heard the faltering words and hurried faster. The new captive girl was singing. She was singing a strange song of the white people. She must be happy today. She had put her sorrow aside at last.
It had not taken Little Turtle long to find out that when the white girl was sent to bring water from the spring daily she ran off to the forest, sat under the walnut tree and cried for hours. He wondered that Squirrel Woman and Shining Star allowed it. Every day he expected to see Squirrel Woman, cross and ugly, march out and with kicks and blows fetch the girl home. But she did not come. Perhaps she knew as he did that the white girl’s sorrow must wear itself out. There was no hurry. As each moon passed, her unhappiness would fade. There were many moons to come. But in the meantime he did what he could.
Day by day he followed Corn Tassel to the woods, and when she had dried her tears, took her by the hand and coaxed her home. Day by day he talked to her patiently in the Seneca language, pointing out objects and repeating their Indian names over and over, in the hope that some day she could speak to him in reply. Surely if she could speak his language she would feel happier in her new home.
Today she was singing. But the sadness, as he came nearer, wrung his heart. The words were happy words—he could tell that by the sound—but the voice that sang was still filled with pain. Corn Tassel! Her name was as beautiful as her hair! If only she could be happy!
Suddenly the song broke off in the middle. Molly looked up. Little Turtle held out a silver brooch. He smiled expectantly. Surely a piece of shining silver cut in delicate design would please any woman or girl-child. “Here! This is for you!” he said.
But Molly did not so much as look at it. She rose to her feet and instead of waiting as usual for him to go first, she ran back to the village as fast as she could go.
With the silver brooch still in his hand, Little Turtle stared after her, shaking his head. He wished he understood her better. If only she could speak in Indian…Deep in thought, he watched her as she ran, then started swiftly in pursuit.
As he approached the lodges, he heard a buzz of excitement. A hunting party which had been out for a short trip was returning along the trail by the creek. Some of the women and children who had gone out to meet the hunters followed behind, laden down with game and dried meat.
But Little Turtle gave no heed. Running swiftly, he caught up with Corn Tassel as she was about to enter Squirrel Woman’s lodge, and took her by the hand. He pulled her along behind him with desperate determination.
Little Turtle approached the largest lodge in the village. He gave a call as he stood before the door. When the answer, “Dajoh, enter!” came, he lifted the flap and went in, pulling Molly along behind him. The boy and girl found themselves in the presence of a group of men who were sitting about a fire. All eyes were fixed on one man, the Chief.
Chief Standing Pine was the most important man in the village. He was strong and handsome, wise and thoughtful. No one entered his presence lightly. He had no time for trivial things. He sat on the ground, with his feet crossed under him. His face was turned toward the fire in quiet meditation. Attentively a woman handed him his pipe and a martenskin pouch. Then she stood behind him, ready always to anticipate his needs and serve him. The Chief nodded his head and the men left the room. Slowly he took tobacco mixed with savory red willow bark and carefully filled the pipe. Little Turtle now ran forward, took it to the fire and laid a hot coal on top of the bowl. Then he handed the pipe back to the Chief.
Molly waited in the corner, staring. She wondered why Little Turtle had brought her there. The room was quiet and nothing was said. She wished she had not come. After a long period of waiting, the great Chief turned to the little Indian boy and the two began to talk. Molly listened, for she knew they were speaking of her.
“What is it, my son?” asked Chief Standing Pine.
Little Turtle, young as he was, knew it was not wise to approach the subject dear to his heart too directly. He would lead up to it by slow, careful steps.
“When a hunter traps a raccoon or a fox, O Chief,” said Little Turtle quietly, “he uses the dead-fall. As soon as the animal eats the bait, the small log falls and kills him at once. Is it not so, O Chief?”
“Yes, my son,” answered the Chief.
“The dead-fall is better,” went on Little Turtle, “than a trap or contrivance which allows the animal to suffer great pain. A hunter should not be wantonly cruel. That is true. Is it not, O Chief?”
“Yes, my son. You are indeed wise for a hunter so young,” replied the Chief.
“A hurt animal in a trap cannot go free,” said Little Turtle. “That is true, is it not, O Chief?”
“Yes, my son. You have observed well.”
“A white girl captive is like an animal in a trap, suffering great pain. Is it not so, O Chief?”
Chief Standing Pine made no answer. Then Little Turtle was bold. To the great Chief, so wise and thoughtful, he made a suggestion. Not many dared be so bold, but he did it for Corn Tassel’s sake.
Little Turtle trembled, not knowing what he must suffer for saying such words. The old Chief looked hard at him, then at the white girl who cowered against the wall.
“My son,” he spoke with great patience, “you are too young to understand. You do not know the ways of war. War is a cruel master. War is never kind to the enemy. We take the life of a man only when his tribe is at war with us.
“The pale-faced people come in mighty streams from over the great waters. They come to our forests, our streams, our meadows. They kill our men, they kill the animals the Great Spirit has given us for food and clothing. They spoil our hunting. Their horses and cows eat the grass our deer used to feed on. They have no respect for the forest. They chop down trees, not for use, but merely to destroy them. They build houses where our lodges once stood. They are pushing us out of the lands of our fathers. They come, not as friends, but as enemies, taking from us things that are rightly ours.
“We raid, sack and burn their settlements as they do our villages. It is kill or be killed. We fight for our very life. We take scalp for scalp, captive for captive—no more. Our religion tells us that for every scalp or captive taken by the pale-face, we must take a scalp or captive in return. That is justice. It is the ancient law come down from our fathers, by which we live. These things you will understand and accept as you grow older. You are young, my son.
“It is hard to see the grief of the pale-faced captive. Yours is a noble impulse and I forgive you. But there is nothing you can do. Time alone can help. Time, the destroyer of every affection, will dry the tears in the white captive’s eyes. Before many more moons have passed, the little one with hair like waving tassels of golden corn will be happy. Before many moons, she will forget her sorrows, forget the pale-faced people and be happy with the Indians. I have spoken. Go, my son!”
Little Turtle’s face was as sad as Corn Tassel’s when they came out of the lodge together. He knew the Chief was wiser than all men and he knew his words must be true. Only one thing he did not accept—the thought that there was nothing he could do. He was determined to help Corn Tassel more than ever before.
Although she could only guess what he had said, Molly knew that the Indian boy had been interceding for her with the Chief. She knew that he was sorry for her and she felt between him and herself a bond of understanding. She was filled with a new kind of content when the boy was with her, a content she felt with no one else.
They walked along slowly together. Just when they reached the lodge, Squirrel Woman rushed out in haste, as if she were looking for Molly. She sent Little Turtle away abruptly. Then she brought out Shining Star’s baby strapped to his baby frame. Seizing Molly by the arm, the woman quickly placed the baby on the girl’s back and laid the burden-strap across her forehead. She lifted up to her own back a heavy basket of seed corn. Then she started off to the field, calling to Molly to follow.
It was planting-time, Molly knew. She had seen Red Bird, the older-woman, and Shining Star, the kind sister, go off earlier with baskets of corn on their backs. She knew they were making ready to plant corn.
Molly had never carried a baby on her back before. The baby was about six months old, she guessed, much larger and heavier than her tiny baby brother at home. But she had never dared look at him or touch him. She stayed as far away as possible.
The load of the baby was heavy and the burden-strap cut cruelly against her forehead Molly poked her head forward, stooping to lessen the weight. Then she knew she was walking like an Indian woman. Was she turning her toes in, too?
Suddenly she hated the Indian women and the way they walked. She hated the Indian baby tied fast to a hard, flat board. She moved the burden-strap a trifle with her fingers as the tears filled her eyes. Then she saw Squirrel Woman stopping in the path ahead, waiting for her to come up. She bent her head forward and, stooping, hurried on.
In one of the fields corn was already up. The fresh green blades like slender grasses made a dotted pattern over the hummocks. A second field was ready for a later planting. The women were working busily, Red Bird, Shining Star and others, under the direction of Bear Woman, the matron and overseer.
Squirrel Woman took the baby off Molly’s back and hung the baby frame up on a limb of the nearest tree. There she left the Indian baby swinging in the breeze. Molly glanced up in astonishment, then turned quickly away. Why should she care what they did with their baby?
Squirrel Woman brought Molly over to the field which had not been plowed at all. Rich black earth was piled up in hills about two feet high, placed a “long step” apart. The hills were in rows and the women walked, each in a row, planting corn in the tops of the hills. They worked rapidly, making holes in the earth, dropping in grains of corn and closing the holes again.
Squirrel Woman handed Molly a short stick, to the end of which a piece of elk bone had been tied. She pointed to the row of corn hills and walked off.
How different it was from planting corn at home. Molly held her stick in her hand, not knowing what to do with it. Did the Indians know nothing of plows? Was her stick supposed to be a hoe? How could anybody plant corn with a stick? A vision of her father’s field, behind the zigzag rail fence, and the wooden plow lifting the soil in clean, even rows, came back to her. A vision of the field he had not plowed or planted to corn…because of the Indians.
Molly looked about and she saw Bear Woman, the overseer, standing at a distance, looking at her. She saw Squirrel Woman advancing rapidly in her direction. Molly’s eyes were dry now and her lips set in a tight line. She was afraid of neither of the women. Did they think they could make her plant corn—plant corn for Indians to eat? If they did, then they were sadly mistaken.
Down she threw her hoe that was only a stick of wood. Out of the field she ran. She stumbled over the loose earth hummocks, scattering the dirt with her feet; She kicked over a basket, spilling seed corn in all directions. Past the tree where the Indian baby hung swinging, she ran as fleet as the wind. The baby was crying now but she did not care. She would never look at an Indian baby, never touch him, never carry him again on her back.
She ran into the woods. She had only the woods to run to—there was no other place to go. When she heard someone coming swiftly behind her, she knew before she looked who it was. She had only one good friend, only one friend who cared what she did—Little Turtle.
The boy asked no explanation. Sensing that something had gone wrong, he tried to make her forget it. He led Molly down by the creek. They followed it upstream and into a shallow brook, where on sun warmed rocks mud turtles lay basking. Little Turtle lifted his bow and aimed under them. Each time the arrow hit the rock, the turtle flew several feet up in the air. Up they flew and down they fell. Before she knew it, Molly was laughing.
“Is that why—you—‘Little Turtle’?” she asked, venturing a few halting words in the Seneca language.
Little Turtle beamed. She had spoken at last. “Yes, Little Turtle, me! I shoot little turtles!” he answered, happily. “When I grow up I shall earn a new name for myself. I shall be a great hunter and a great warrior!” He puffed out his chest with pride.
Molly’s laugh pleased the Indian boy greatly. Her face shone like the sparkling sun when she was happy. Never must she be sad again. Close by in the woods the boy pulled a long strong grape-vine, climbed up a tree and tied it fast for a swing. Molly sat on it and soon she was swinging happily back and forth. Like the happy sound of falling waters, her rippling laughter rang through the forest and fell pleasantly on the boy’s ears.
When they came out of the woods Little Turtle led the way to a small lodge of logs that Molly had not noticed before. An old man was sitting inside the door carving a ladle of wood.
“This is Grandfather Shagbark!” said Little Turtle.
Then he stepped back in surprise, for the old man and the captive girl seemed to be already acquainted.
They looked at each other and smiled. Molly could scarce believe her eyes, for before her she saw the old Indian who had befriended her on the mountain journey. She had not seen him once since she came to the Indian village. The other Indians in the large canoe had sailed on down the River Ohio and she had supposed he had gone with them. Now she was glad he had stayed behind.
Shagbark began to talk about his work. He pointed out many things which he had made during the winter, before he left on the expedition to the Pennsylvania settlements—wooden bowls, ladles, dishes, spoons, snow-shoes, as well as stone and pottery pipes.
Little Turtle held out his bow proudly. “Shagbark made it for me,” he cried eagerly. “He is teaching me to be a great hunter. Soon he will make me a real man’s bow and arrows; won’t you, Grandfather?”
“Slowly, slowly,” said Shagbark, his placid face smiling. “First we must learn how to shoot. How does one learn?”
“I will tell you how he teaches me,” Little Turtle replied, turning to Molly.
Then, just as if Molly understood every word, he explained how Shagbark first hung a coon’s foot high at the smoke-hole for him to aim at. Then the coon’s foot was thrown to the top of a high tree and Little Turtle learned to hit it there. Down to the creek to practice on mud-turtles came next, and there the boy had earned his name. After that, in the woods he had taken his first squirrel.
Molly followed his words closely. The boy spoke slowly and made meaningful gestures. Suddenly, to her great surprise, she realized that she understood every word that he was saying! She smiled to herself. As Little Turtle’s and Shagbark’s words flowed back and forth, she listened quietly.