by Lois Lenski
“So now, Grandfather,” asked Little Turtle, “may I have a man’s bow, and arrows with flintheads?”
“Slowly, slowly, my son!” replied Shagbark. He paused and looked critically at the wooden ladle in his hand. He held up the unfinished handle for the children to see. “What will it be?” he asked.
“A bear!” cried Little Turtle.
“A turtle!” suggested Molly, at which they all laughed.
The old man kept on shaving off tiny chips of wood, shaping the handle carefully, without speaking.
“When may I have my new bow and arrows, Grandfather?” asked Little Turtle again.
“Oh ho!” answered Shagbark, laughing. “This boy never forgets. Well, my son, a real hunter’s bow and arrows are not easily made. First, the flint must be quarried and carefully selected for the arrow-heads. Then the blanks must be made and the finished points chipped. But that is not all, oh no. The arrow-shafts must be cut from red willow withes and dried under weight to prevent warping. And still that is not all, oh no. A bow should be split from tough hickory saplings or red cedar. The wood must be buried for so many moons to season it. Then it must be given the right shape…Oh, the making of a bow is no easy task.
“But most important of all, an Indian boy must learn to shoot, so he can bring home game to help his mother. At first wooden arrow-heads are best because he loses so many. Then bone or antler when he is sure he can find each one…”
“I found one for Little Turtle,” cried Molly.
“Yes, Grandfather, Corn Tassel found one for me…”
“You did not see where it went yourself?” asked Shagbark, his face grown suddenly sober.
“No, Grandfather. I did not see where it went.” Little Turtle hung down his head.
“Then you are not ready for arrow-heads of flint!” said Shagbark, with a note of sadness in his voice.
“You are right, Grandfather,” said the boy. “I will be patient.”
The old man held up the ladle he had been working on. The carved ornament on the handle was complete. “What is it now?” he asked.
“A bird!” cried Molly, clapping her hands.
“A singing bird,” added Little Turtle shyly, “to keep Corn Tassel always happy!”
For the boy already knew that Shagbark had made the ladle for the white girl captive. He knew that his grandfather wanted her to be happy as he did himself. So he was not surprised when he saw Corn Tassel holding the pretty ladle with the bird on the handle between her two white hands. She had a ladle of her own now to keep. The bird on the handle was the sign for all to see and know that the ladle belonged to Corn Tassel.
“A singing bird—to keep Corn Tassel—always—happy!” Softly, haltingly, Molly repeated the words in the Seneca language.
“She speaks! She understands!” cried Little Turtle, in great excitement.
It was true. All the time they had been talking, Molly had understood what they were saying. Due to Little Turtle’s helpful teaching, she had gradually learned some of the important words and phrases of the Seneca language. All through the long journey and all through the long weeks of her stay in the village, her ears had been growing accustomed to the strange sounds and now, suddenly, she could understand. How strange it was—a new world opening.
Molly looked at Little Turtle and Shagbark and smiled. They understood. What good friends they were!
The time had passed so happily that she had forgotten to be sad. It had passed so happily that she had forgotten the unpleasantness of the morning. It was when she was on her way back to the lodge of the Indian women that she remembered. Her unwillingness, her disobedience, her running off to the woods—all these came back to her. What would they do to her now that she had been away all day? She looked down at the ladle in her hand and the feel of the soft wood gave her courage, as she thought of the old Indian who had made it.
She hurried into the lodge, suddenly hungry. She had not eaten since morning. They were all gathered about the fire. The baby hung from the bunk pole as usual. The family was larger tonight. The husbands of the two sisters, now returned from the hunting trip, were there. Red Bird, the mother, and Swift Water, the father—they were all there.
Molly stood in the doorway and watched. She saw Red Bird dip the ladle into the big clay pot, fill a bowl and hand it to one of the men.
“The succotash is good tonight,” the woman said. “When one has worked hard and is hungry, the succotash lies well on the tongue.”
The words fell on Molly’s ear as clearly as if they had been spoken in English. Words that had before been only a jumble of queer sounds suddenly took on meaning: “The succotash is good tonight… when one has worked hard and is hungry…”
Molly stepped forward, picked up a wooden bowl and walked over to Red Bird. She reached out her hand, displaying the new ladle proudly. All eyes round the circle turned to look, not at the ladle but at Molly.
“Grandfather Shagbark made it for me,” she said in the Seneca language. “A singing bird to keep Corn Tassel happy.”
It was the first time she had spoken to them in Seneca. But no one appeared to notice. In silence, Molly handed out her bowl to be filled with succotash—hot, steaming succotash, made of corn and beans cooked together.
But Red Bird did not lift her hand. She did not look at the bird on the handle of the new-carved ladle. She pointed to the door where, stood the baskets that in the morning had held seed-corn. She pointed to Corn Tassel’s bed, then she looked at the girl.
“When one has worked hard and is hungry,” she repeated in a quiet voice, “the succotash lies well on the tongue.”
Molly climbed into her bed, tearless. Well had she learned her lesson, a lesson she would not forget. She climbed into her bed without her supper. She had learned that from now on she must work if she would eat.
7
Slow Weaving
“A BASKET FOR ME?” ASKED Molly in surprise.
“When the corn is ripened for picking,” said Shining Star quietly, “you will see there are not baskets enough. It is always good to have one more. A basket is useful for many things—for gathering the fruits of the earth, for carrying loads, for storing supplies.”
Shining Star looked very beautiful this morning. Her blue skirt and bright red leggings were made of broadcloth and were richly embroidered with bead designs. Her figured calico over-dress was fastened down the front with a row of shining silver brooches. Above the colorful costume, silver earrings dangled from her ears and her face beamed with honest kindliness.
Putting her baby in Molly’s arms, she sat down under a shady tree beside the lodge. From the top of a pile of splints cut from the black ash tree, she picked up an unfinished basket and began to weave. The dry splints rattled pleasantly to the touch of her deft fingers.
“Today it will be finished,” said Shining Star, in her low, soft voice, “the basket for Corn Tassel.”
Molly’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “A basket of your making, my sister,” she answered shyly, “will please me very much.”
Molly made a new nest of fresh, dried moss in the baby frame. Then she wrapped the strong, kicking baby in a blanket and lashed him fast with two broad beaded belts, one red, the other blue. The baby-frame was the finest in the village. Its foot-board was carved as well as the hoop or bow which was placed arching over the child’s head to protect it in case of a fall. Molly folded and placed at one side the cloth which was sometimes drawn over the bow for shade.
Then she, too, sat down upon the ground. As the wind began to blow, the play trinkets hanging from the arched hoop set up a merry tinkle. The pretty shells knocked gently against the tiny wooden hoops filled with knitted webs of nettle-stalk twine.
“What are the spider webs for?” asked Molly, pointing with her finger.
“To keep away evil,” answered Shining Star. “As a spider web catches each thing that touches it, so the knitted webs will catch flying evil before it can harm little Blue Jay. Grandmother Red Bi
rd made them. She is well versed in wisdom.”
“But how can he play,” asked Molly, “with his hands tied tight? How can he learn “to use his hands if they are always tied tight in blankets?”
Shining Star raised her head and smiled. “It is the Indian way,” she said simply. “The Senecas have always done so.”
Molly was fast learning how different Indian ways were from white people’s. It seemed strange there could be such different ways to do the same things. At home her baby brother was left free to wave his arms, crawl or kick at will.
“The Indian child grows strong and straight,” Shining Star went on, “with his back to the hickory board. The Indian child, with his hands tied close, learns patience. Before he can walk alone he has learned a hard lesson.”
“All he can do is open his mouth and cry,” said Molly, looking down at him thoughtfully, “but he doesn’t do that very often. Tied up in a tree and left swinging, no wonder he imitates the call of the blue jay! “
“His first words were spoken to the birds in the tree,” said Shining Star softly. “That is good. His life will be spent in the forest. The birds and the beasts will be his friends. He will learn many lessons from his brothers of the forest. He will follow the trail with the scent of the bear or the wolf. He will build more wisely than the beaver, climb with more daring than the raccoon. He will work more faithfully than the dog; crouch more closely and spring more surely than the panther. He will learn cunning from the fox, the power of swift feet from the deer.
“He will learn to be as brave, as uncomplaining as his brothers of the forest. The hurt dog, the wounded wolf or bear, the dying deer never cries out in pain. The beasts bear their pain in silence, giving no outward sign. They go forward bravely to meet danger. They shrink not from pain or suffering, sickness or death. When little Blue Jay learns to be as brave and uncomplaining as his brothers, he will be a brave man indeed.”
Shining Star looked at Corn Tassel thoughtfully. Was she thinking, not of a wounded animal, not of Blue Jay, but of a white girl captive who was in need of courage? Shining Star had chosen her words with care. She seemed to know that a conflict was going on in the white captive’s mind.
As Molly listened, she looked away from the Indian woman. She wanted to close her ears to the words and yet she wanted to hear them. They gave her a sense of peace she had not felt before and at the same time she feared them. One part of her mind wanted to listen. The other part steeled itself hard against the woman and all that she stood for.
A voice in Molly’s heart kept crying out to make her hear: “You must not love Shining Star. There is a purpose behind her kindness. If you listen to her words and love her, she will turn you into an Indian.” An answering voice cried out: “How can a girl torn away from her people live without affection? How can I live without someone to love?”
“But I don’t want to turn into an Indian!” The words leaped out of her mouth before she knew it, tell-tale words that gave Shining Star a glimpse deep down into her aching heart. The tears came and Molly could not hold them back.
“An Indian child never cries,” said Shining Star, calmly. “Loud sounds of grief might attract a wolf or panther or some enemy of the Senecas. Like his brother in the forest, the child must learn to bear his pain and give no sign. He must have courage to suffer bravely. Can you be as brave as a wounded deer?”
Shining Star knew the white captive carried sadness in her heart. Shining Star was trying to help her. Molly dried her tears quickly. Surely a white girl could show courage like an Indian…
“Come, we must go to the corn-field,” said Shining Star, laying aside her work. She always knew when they had talked enough.
“After all—I shall not finish the basket today. Better to weave more slowly…but more surely… Then there will be no need to unravel what has been woven before.”
Molly looked into her face, surprised. Was there some hidden meaning behind the words?
She picked up the heavy baby frame and with the woman’s help, loaded it onto her back. She was accustomed to the burden now and took it up without thinking. As day by day it grew heavier, she knew she was growing stronger, too, to bear it. As she was used to the burden, so was she growing used to all the Indian ways.
Already in four moons she had learned so much. She had learned that by prompt obedience she avoided punishments, even Squirrel Woman’s ever-ready kicks. She had learned that Indian words spoken instead of English brought forth pleased smiles. She had learned that when she worked hard, she was given good food to eat. She had learned that an Indian baby can be as lovable as a white one. Now she had learned one thing more—that the cold look on the face of an Indian was not indifference. She knew now that he suffered as much as others, but he bore his pain without a sign, because he had great courage.
When they reached the corn-field, they met a group of women and children carrying water vessels, hurrying toward the creek. Behind them walked Bear Woman, slow and majestic. Her face was wrinkled and stern. With many winters upon her head, her back was bent with age.
“The corn stands still,” she said with sorrow in her voice. “It does not grow for want of water. We must quench its thirst.” After a moment she added, “There has been no rain for twenty suns.”
“This field was planted later than the others,” said Shining Star, “after my sister and I returned from Fort Duquesne. The right time to plant corn is when the first oak leaves are as big as a red squirrels foot. Well do I remember, the oak-leaves were half-grown when these seeds were sown. Grandfather Hé-no is not pleased to have us plant corn so late.”
“Grandfather Hé-no has forgotten us,” said Bear Woman, sadly. “Now we must suffer his punishment.” She walked away, following after the women and children.
“Grandfather Hé-no?” asked Molly. “Is he a Chief whose name I have not heard?”
“Grandfather Hé-no is the Thunder God,” explained Shining Star. “He brings rain to make the corn, beans and squashes grow. Today Shining Star will make a song, asking Hé-no for rain.”
Shining Star took Blue Jay from Molly’s back and hung him up on a limb. Then she and Molly joined the water-carriers. They brought many vessels of water which they poured at the feet of the corn-stalks, soaking the ground thoroughly.
Then the women and children stood by and listened while Shining Star talked to the Thunder God:
“Oh Hé-no, our Grandfather,
Come to us and speak kindly,
Come to us and wash the earth again.
When the soil is too dry
The corn cannot grow.
The beans and the squashes are dry and withered
Because they are thirsty.
Hé-no, our Grandfather
Does harm to no man;
He protects his grandchildren
From witches and reptiles;
He washes the earth,
Gives new life to the growing corn.
For all thy gifts
We thank thee, oh Hé-no!
Come to thy grandchildren—
Bring rain! Bring rain!”
That evening, after Shining Star and Molly had eaten, they heard the noise of a soft rumble, like thunder far away. They hurried out to look, followed by the rest of the family. The sky that had all day been cloudless, began to darken.
“Hé-no has heard us,” said Shining Star, with a happy smile. “He is coming to visit us.”
With amazing swiftness the storm rolled up, a dense black cloud sweeping furiously eastward. Over the Indian village, thunder soon broke with deafening peals and lightning flashed in sheets of flame.
Molly ran back to the lodge door, frightened. The sky made her think of a hymn the white people had sung in Marsh Creek Hollow:
“Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets’ warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!”
She ran to get away from the fury of the storm, from the anger of th
is unknown god of the Indian people. But Shining Star came after her, took her firmly by the hand and led her forth again.
Looking about she saw the Indians, men, women and children, standing in front of their lodges in perfect calm. They had no thought of danger. They gazed at the changing sky in delighted wonder, as the crashes of thunder shook the air and flashes of lightning broke across. When the rain began to pour down in heavy torrents, they held out their hands to welcome it. “It is good! It is good!” they cried. “The corn that was dying of thirst drinks again!”
“Hé-no has come!” said Shining Star softly, and something of her calm and wonder passed into the white girl who met her gaze and held tightly to her hand.
“We thank thee, oh Hé-no!
Thou hast come and spoken!
Thou hast washed the earth again,
And brought water to the thirsty corn to the beans and the squashes.
We thank thee, oh Hé-no!”
The thunder-storm ended the drought and from that time on, the corn grew apace. Each day, as Molly walked between the rows, she could almost see the corn-stalks grow. First, they were knee high, then up to her waist, then abreast of her shoulder, so she could barely look over the top of the waving sea of green. Then came a day when the corn-stalks blossomed in tassel. The field of corn, with green tassels nodding, was a pleasant sight to the Indians, but to no one more than to Molly.
“Oh, how beautiful is the corn in tassel!” cried Shining Star, as they walked between the rows together.
Molly looked up with a puzzled expression. She had long ago noticed that the Indians called her by an Indian name. She had grown used to the sound, but she had not questioned its meaning. Now she heard Shining Star use it when speaking of the tassels on the corn.
“Corn Tassel?” she asked, using the Indian word.
“Yes,” replied Shirting Star. “When first we saw your pale yellow hair, there was only one thing we could think of—a stalk of corn in tassel. So we gave you its name—Corn Tassel!”