The White Oneida

by Baxter, Jean Rae;

  They rode all day. When the sun touched the tops of the trees, they stopped beside a creek edged by willow trees. Broken Trail had only one fishing line. While he fished, Margaret went off to look for nuts.

  When she returned, he had four small bass already cleaned and scaled. Margaret had found no nuts. What she brought back was a straight stick that was a bit shorter than her forearm and slightly thicker than a man’s thumb.

  “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “To make a flute. Mine was broken.”

  “I know.” She didn’t need to remind him of that.

  “I’ll need a knife with a thin blade,” she said.

  He pulled his knife from its sheath. “Will this do?”

  She tested the blade, which he kept honed to the razor’s edge needed for trimming a pen.

  “Perfect. I’ll start as soon as we’ve eaten.”

  They skewered the fish on green sticks and grilled them over the fire. Hot and juicy, the bass were better than any of the food served in the school dining hall.

  After they had eaten, she sat by the fire, peeling the bark from the stick with careful strokes, releasing the green scent of freshly cut willow.

  The sun set. As darkness fell, he added wood to the fire to give her light to work by.

  When the stick was scraped clean, Margaret stuck the knife point into one end. Holding the stick firmly, she hollowed out the soft pith as far as she could reach. Then she did the same from the other end. A sharp stick pushed through loosened what was left in the middle. When all the pith was freed, she lifted the hollowed tube and blew hard to clear the last crumbs. Then she cut four evenly spaced holes along its length. The transformation looked complete.

  “Is it finished?” he asked.

  “Not quite.” She took from her pouch a shaped piece of wood a little larger than an acorn. “This is the block from my old flute. I saved it. And I brought along some beeswax from candle making.”

  He watched the precise movements of her fingers as she trimmed the block, rubbed it with wax, and inserted it into the mouth end of the flute. Finally, she held it up for him to see.

  Something about the flute invited him to touch it. He reached out one finger, and as he stroked the smooth, damp wood, the feeling came over him that the flute was alive. Newborn.

  “Will you play it?”

  “First, I must ask the spirits to lend their voices to my flute.”

  She pulled out a small leather bag from her pouch. Loosening the drawstrings, she removed an even smaller bag. Then she produced the smudge bowl from her basket.

  “I looked for that,” he said. “I saw it was gone from under the rock where we had the smudge.”

  “It came from Old Oneida; now it’s going back.”

  She poured a few tobacco flakes into the bowl, lit them with the glowing tip of a stick pulled from the fire, and then gently waved the flute back and forth in the smoke. When she had completed this sacrifice, she said, “I can play it now.”

  The moon was rising above the trees. Round and silvery, surrounded by a frosty haze.

  She lifted the flute to her mouth. “Here’s a song to Mother Moon.”

  As the notes sounded, his heart seemed to stop beating and he felt completely under the music’s spell.

  “Play another,” he begged when the song ended.

  “I’ll play you my song to the winds.”

  Closing his eyes to listen, he felt the spirits all around. After the song finished, she said, “Why don’t you try it?”

  He took the flute from her hand. He would not have imagined that it would be so light, so hard and yet so soft.

  “Go on,” she smiled. “It won’t hurt you.”

  After blowing a few squawks, he gave it back. “The spirits must have run for cover. I was trying to make the sound of a bird.”

  “You did make the sound of a bird. An osprey shrieking at the fish that got away.”

  “It was supposed to sound like a wood pigeon cooing at dawn.”

  They laughed together.

  The feeling came over him that the music had created a bond between them. As he watched her put the flute carefully into her basket, he wondered whether she felt it too.

  CHAPTER 25

  Becoming Yellowbird

  A SCREAM IN DARKNESS. In an instant Broken Trail was sitting bolt upright. The scream came from Margaret. Mumbled words followed. “Leave me alone.”

  “Margaret! What’s wrong?”

  She did not answer but kept on mumbling, “Leave me alone. Leave me alone.”

  He pulled himself from the warmth of his blanket and seized her by both shoulders. “Wake up.”

  She woke with a jerk, trembling. “Mr. Dudgeon was coming at me from behind a tree. His face was red. He was all sweaty and his eyes were bulging. I was so terrified I couldn’t move.”

  “He isn’t here,” Broken Trail said. “There’s nobody here but you and me. You’ve had a nightmare.”

  She looked blankly from side to side.

  He held on to her until she stopped trembling. Then he said, “Let me get you some water.” He took the birch bark cone he kept in his carrying basket and brought her a drink from the lake.

  While she drank the water, he crouched beside her, wondering whether to put his arm around her. He decided not to. She might misunderstand.

  “Soon you’ll be home,” he said, “and you can put all of this behind you. You can hang a dream catcher over your sleeping platform to let the sweet dreams in and keep the bad ones out.”

  “Just a few more days.” The confusion in her eyes was gone. She handed the birch bark cone back to him. “It’s time I started calling you Broken Trail and you started calling me Yellowbird. From now on, that’s my name.”

  He could see that she was back to normal. He tossed a handful of sticks onto the fire. “Will you never be Margaret again? You went to school so you could become a woman of two worlds. Why stop?”

  “I’m not going to stop. I’ll be Margaret whenever it’s useful.” In the flare-up of the flames he saw the purposeful look on her face. “When I’m older, I’ll take part in treaty negotiations, like Thayendanegea’s sister Konwatsi’tsiaiénni.

  “Molly Brant.”

  “Yes. I’m going to be a diplomat like her.”

  “Jacob told me you were training to be a holy woman.”

  “I was. For three years I studied healing and sacred rites. I had a wonderful teacher. Her name was Medicine Snake Woman. She helped me see the unity of life. Plants and insects, animals and people—all are one. She made me understand how everything is alive and related.”

  “If you chose that path in life, why did you decide to give it up and become a diplomat?”

  “I didn’t decide. It was decided for me. It happened like a flash of lightning that turns night into day.”

  “Did you have a vision? That’s how my future was shown to me.”

  “No. I was wide awake. It happened last year when a government agent came to Old Oneida to talk to all the people. We gathered in the dancing circle, men on one side and women on the other.

  “The agent was a stiff little man. He explained to us that there had been a war between England and its colonies. All of us knew that, but we listened patiently because we saw that the agent’s talk was leading up to something. And then he said it: ‘When the war ended, King George gave this land to the people of the United States of America.’

  “This made no sense to me. I saw from the faces around me that it made no sense to anyone. I looked across at where the men were sitting and waited for one of our elders to say something. When none did, I stood up and said in a loud voice, ‘How could King George do that? It never was his land to give away.’

  “Everybody stared at me. Maybe I was just a girl, but they could see that the invisible spirits put power into my mouth. I shook my fist at the agent. ‘This is our land. The Great Spirit created this land and created us to live here. The United States government does not tel
l us what to do. We Oneidas are a free people, subject to no power on earth.’ People around me nodded their heads. I heard voices muttering, ‘It is so.’

  “After I sat down, the agent spoke very patiently. He said, ‘Two hundred and forty thousand white citizens live in New York State, but only six thousand natives. Such numbers show clearly that the Oneida people are subject to the power of the United States of America, whether you like it or not.’ He smiled as if we were children who understand nothing. ‘You don’t have to worry. Congress will protect you.’”

  “The way the wolf protects the rabbit,” Broken Trail exclaimed. “But he was right about the numbers. Thayendanegea told me the same thing. He believes the Oneida people are so badly outnumbered that they can’t survive as a nation if they stay here.”

  “What does he think the Oneidas should do?”

  “Move to the Grand River. The Haldimand Tract is for all the Six Nations of the Haudenosaunee.”

  She shook her head. “The Grand River isn’t where the Oneidas belong. I say to Thayendanegea exactly what I said to the government agent: the Great Spirit created this land for us, not for white settlers. This is where we must make a stand.”

  “You want to fight? Even though white people outnumber natives forty to one?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Old Oneida

  THEY REACHED OLD ONEIDA early in the Moon of Falling Leaves.

  At first glance, it was a ruin. Nothing remained of its palisade but broken poles. Rows of charred timbers marked the places where longhouses had once stood. The village would have presented a dismal sight if there had not been equally vivid signs of rebirth. Two brand-new longhouses stood facing a dancing circle of beaten-down earth. Above the entrance to one longhouse was the freshly painted drawing of a bear. A snarling wolf identified the other.

  On the far side of the dancing circle, an unfinished longhouse looked like a skeleton of timbers and poles, with elm-bark slabs covering less than half its length. Men sitting astride bare roof poles were tying in place the slabs that the women passed up to them. Broken Trail knew that this would be the home of the third Oneida clan: the Turtle.

  Maybe these people would be better off to start anew in a different place, yet he admired their courage and felt a surge of hope for their future.

  Throngs of men and women, boys and girls, were walking about. Broken Trail saw their surprise as Yellowbird waved to everyone, calling out cheerfully, “I’m back!”

  Outside the Wolf Clan longhouse a girl was busy scraping a beaver pelt stretched on an upright frame. When the girl saw Yellowbird ride up to the longhouse, seated behind Broken Trail, her eyes opened wide and she dropped her scraping tool.

  The instant Dark Cloud came to a stop, Yellowbird slid from his back and the two girls hugged. After the greetings, the other girl looked Yellowbird up and down, her eyes taking in the linsey-woolsey gown, which was much the worse for wear after five days of travel in the bush.

  “I thought you’d be gone for three years,” said the girl. “But you’ve been away only one winter.”

  “I wanted to come home.”

  “Everybody missed you.”

  The girl looked up at Broken Trail, still mounted.

  “Se-go-li,” he said, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “My name is Broken Trail.”

  “I’m Dancing Owl.”

  “Broken Trail is a scholar at Sedgewick School,” said Yellowbird.

  “I had to leave for a while to go on a long trail,” he explained. “Since I was coming this way, I brought Yellowbird home.”

  “You have a fine horse for a long trail,” said Dancing Owl.

  “He’s a good horse.” Broken Trail dismounted. “He needs to rest. Tomorrow I set out again.”

  “We keep our horses penned against a cliff,” said Dancing Owl. “A guard is with them day and night because there are many horse thieves in this part of the country.”

  “I’ll find my mother to tell her I’m home,” Yellowbird said to Broken Trail. “Then I’ll show you the way to the horse pen.”

  “Sings in the Rain is in the longhouse. I think Running Deer is there too,” said Dancing Owl. “I’ll take Broken Trail to the horse pen while you greet your family.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Yellowbird turned to Broken Trail.

  “As soon as I’ve seen my mother and brother, I’ll take you to meet them.”

  She disappeared into the longhouse.

  Leading Dark Cloud, Broken Trail walked at Dancing Owl’s side across the dancing circle. Soon a crowd of little boys surrounded them, chattering praises.

  “Good horse!”

  “What’s his name?”

  “How fast can he go?”

  Broken Trail cheerfully answered their questions. He enjoyed the admiration his horse received. Dark Cloud enjoyed it, too. He arched his neck, lifted his hooves, and pranced. The little boys followed along.

  The pen was just outside the village, at the base of a rocky cliff where a small stream ran through the scree. About twenty horses were in the enclosure. It had a barrier of logs and brush to keep horses in and horse thieves out.

  The little boys helped clear a path to let Dark Cloud walk right in. Other horses ambled over to take a look. As soon as the barrier was back in place, the boys ran off.

  “My horse will be here for just one night,” Broken Trail told the guard. “I’m on my way to Brant’s Ford on the Grand River.”

  “That’s a long way,” said the guard. “It’s not a journey I’d want to make.”

  “Why are you going there?” Dancing Owl asked as she and Broken Trail started back toward the longhouse.

  “To meet with Thayendanegea. It’s Thayendanegea who sent me to Sedgewick School.”

  “Oh! I know who you are. You’re the one they call the White Oneida.”

  “Some call me that.”

  “I expect that someday you’ll become our first white-born chief.”

  She spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as if this were neither surprising nor regrettable.

  When they reached the Wolf Clan longhouse, there was no sign of Yellowbird. Dancing Owl returned to her work. Broken Trail sat on the ground and watched her scrape the blood and fat from the flesh side of the pelt on the stretching frame.

  After some time had passed, he said, “I’m surprised Yellowbird hasn’t yet come outside.”

  “I don’t suppose she’s forgotten about you. If you like, I’ll take you inside to find her.”

  “I don’t mind waiting outside. But if you would look …”

  “I’ll go to see.” She set down her scraping tool and went into the longhouse.

  Broken Trail waited. After what seemed like a long time but probably wasn’t, Dancing Owl returned.

  “The elders have captured her. Yellowbird is sitting with them. They’re passing the feather from hand to hand. They have questions for her; she has questions for them. When I caught her eye, she gave me the kind of smile that says, ‘What can I do?’ So you must be patient a little longer.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Everything’s About Land

  BROKEN TRAIL WAITED while Dancing Owl finished cleaning the beaver pelt and went inside. He waited as dusk descended. Only a few people nodded a casual greeting as they passed him, sitting alone outside the longhouse entrance. Most ignored him, more interested in the tempting odours of stews simmering in the cooking pots inside. Broken Trail smelled those odours too.

  At last Yellowbird emerged. Smiling. Excited. “So much has happened! I can scarcely believe half of it!”

  He stared at her. Was this really Yellowbird? He felt as if he were looking at a different girl. Gone was the shabby gown. Now she was wearing a short dress of creamy doeskin atop leggings with deep fringes. Around her brow was a headband of bright beadwork, and she had a red stripe painted along the part in her hair. Every sign of her months at Sedgewick School had vanished.

  “What’s wrong?
” she asked. “You’re gaping like a fish.”

  “It’s you.” He gulped. You look so …” He wanted to say beautiful but lacked the courage. “You look so … Oneida.”

  She laughed. “Now that I’m home, I needed to change more than just my name. Sorry to make you wait so long. Do you want to hear my news?”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Land.”

  “Everything’s about land. What’s happening this time?”

  She sat down beside him. “Do you know what a deed is?”

  “A deed is what you do. There are good deeds and bad deeds. We are measured by our deeds.”

  “There’s another kind of deed. It’s a document, a piece of paper that says who owns a piece of land. A speculator named John Harper holds a deed to a huge tract of Oneida land on the Susquehanna River. You could call it a bad deed, because he obtained it by bad means. His plan is to carve up this land and sell lots to settlers. We have to stop him.”

  “How did he obtain this deed?”

  “He got three of our chiefs drunk. They didn’t know what they were agreeing to. But even if they’d been sober, the deed wouldn’t be legal. Drunk or sober, no three chiefs have the power to sell land that belongs to everyone.

  “Our elders sent a delegation to the New York State government to ask that the deed be cancelled. That may sound simple, but it isn’t. There are two parts to the government. There’s the Senate, and there’s the Assembly. Unless they agree with each other, nothing can be done. Our delegation convinced the Senate that the deed was illegal. But John Harper’s brother William is a member of the Assembly, and he persuaded it to make the deed legal. To settle the matter, Governor Clinton stepped in—”

  “Enough!” said Broken Trail. “This is too complicated. How are you involved?”

  “I’m going with the elders to their next meeting with Governor Clinton.”

  “So you’re a diplomat already!”

  “Oh, no. Just an interpreter. I speak English better than any of the elders do. They think I can help them make clear to Governor Clinton why the deed should be set aside.”