"Attean same winter as white boy, maybe?" the man asked. He held up ten fingers and then four more.
"I'm thirteen," Matt answered, holding up his own fingers. At least, he excused himself, that would be true in another week.
The Indian boy did not speak a word. Quite plainly he had been brought here against his will. He stared about the cabin and seemed to despise everything he saw. He made Matt feel like a fool, sitting with his leg propped up on a stool. Matt steadied himself on his good leg and stood up.
Now he noticed that Saknis was holding out to him a rough sort of crutch. Matt wished he did not have to try it right now, with both of them watching him, but he could see that the man expected it. He managed a few steps, furious at his own clumsiness. He had never imagined how pesky a crutch could be. Moreover, although there was not the slightest change in the boy's face, Matt was sure that Attean was laughing at him. There was a nasty little gleam in the boy's eyes.
The moment they were gone, he seized the crutch in earnest, and very soon he could swing himself along at a good, brisk pace. Now he was able to get about outside the cabin, to check the corn patch and bring in firewood.
The trouble was, he had only one boot. The woolen stocking his mother had knit for him was wearing thin. On the rough ground it wore through in no time.
This too the Indian noticed, when he came with his grandson next morning. "No boot," he said, pointing.
"I lost it," Matt answered. "It came off in the mud when I ran." Once again he felt ridiculous under the Indian boy's black stare.
Three days later Saknis brought him a pair of moccasins. They were handsome and new, of moosehide, dark and glistening with grease, tied with stout thongs that were long enough to wrap about his ankles.
"Beaver woman make," Saknis said. "Better white man's boots. White boy see."
Matt took off his one boot and slipped on the moccasins. Indeed they were better! In fact they were wonderful. Not stiff like new leather boots. Not knobby or pinching anywhere. Light as nothing at all when he lifted his feet. No wonder Indians did not make a sound when they walked in the forest.
Shame suddenly flooded over Matt. This man had perhaps saved his life, had come bringing food and a crutch, and now these beautiful moccasins. It wasn't enough just to say an awkward thank you. He needed to give something in return. Not money. There were a few silver coins in the tin box, but something made him very sure that he could not offer money to this proud old man. He looked about him in despair. There was almost nothing of his own in the cabin.
Then he spied the two books on the shelf, the only two his father had been able to carry into the wilderness. One was the Bible. He dared not give away his father's Bible. The other book was his own, the only one he had ever possessed. Robinson Crusoe. He had read it a dozen times and the thought of parting with it was painful, but it was the only thing he had to give. He hobbled across the room and took it down from the shelf and held it out to the Indian.
Saknis stared at it.
"It's for you," Matt said. "It's a gift. Please take it."
Saknis reached out and took the book in his hand. He turned it over and over slowly, his face showing not a sign of pleasure. Then he opened it and stood peering at the page. With shame, Matt saw that he was holding it upside down.
He couldn't read. Of course he couldn't. Matt should have known that. He had made a terrible mistake and embarrassed the good man. He had heard once that the one thing an Indian could never forgive was a hurt to his pride. He felt his own face burning.
But Saknis did not look embarrassed. His dark stare went from the book to Matt's face.
"White boy know signs?" he asked.
Matt was puzzled.
"White boy read what white man write here?"
"Yes," Matt admitted. "I can read it."
For a long moment the Indian studied the book. Then, astonishingly, that rare white smile flashed.
"Good," he grunted. "Saknis make treaty."
"A treaty?" Matt was even more puzzled.
"Nkweniss hunt. Bring white boy bird and rabbit. White boy teach Attean white man's signs."
"You mean—I should teach him to read?"
"Good. White boy teach Attean what book say."
Doubtfully, Matt looked from the old man to the boy, who stood silently listening. His heart sank. The scorn in the boy's face had turned to black anger.
"Nda!" The furious word exploded, the first word Matt had ever heard him speak. Half under his breath he muttered a string of incomprehensible words.
His grandfather's stern face did not change. He was undisturbed by the boy's defiance.
"Attean learn," he said. "White man come more and more to Indian land. White man not make treaty with pipe. White man make signs on paper, signs Indian not know. Indian put mark on paper to show him friend of white man. Then white man take land. Tell Indian cannot hunt on land. Attean learn to read white man's signs. Attean not give away hunting grounds."
The boy glowered at his grandfather, but he did not dare to speak again. With a black scowl, he stalked out of the cabin.
"Good," said Saknis calmly. He handed the book back to Matt. "Attean come seba— tomorrow."
CHAPTER 7
BEFORE HE HAD HIS EYES OPEN NEXT MORNING, Matt knew that something was wrong with this day. When it came back to him he sat up with a groan. Attean! What had possessed him to give a book to an Indian? How could he possibly teach a savage to read?
He tried to think back to the time his mother had taught him his ABCs. He could plainly see that brown-covered primer she held in her hands. He had detested it. He had had to learn the short verses printed beside each letter.
A In Adam's fall
We sinned all.
That would hardly do. To be honest, he wasn't sure to this day just what it meant. He would feel mighty silly trying to explain it to a heathen. Then happily he recalled another book that had been sent to his sister, Sarah, from England, with a small picture to illustrate each letter. No nonsense about Adam. A was for apple. Sarah had been luckier than he.
But he had no way of making pictures, and there were no apples here in the forest. What could he find for A that an Indian would understand? He looked about the cabin. T for table, though it was unlikely they'd ever get as far as T. How about A for arm? That was simple enough. B? His eye fell on the leg bone of the squirrel left from last night's meal. The stub of a candle would do for C. D? Door would be just the word for Attean. He certainly could walk out of one fast enough, and would again, no doubt, long before they got to D.
He doubted that Attean would come. Still, he had better be ready. He stirred the fire, ate a chunk of the cold Indian corn cake, and set about to prepare a schoolroom. He shoved the two stools together and laid Robinson Crusoe on the table. He did not have paper or ink. He found a ribbon of birchbark in a corner and tore off a strip and sharpened a stick to a point. Then he waited.
Attean came, swinging a dead rabbit by the ears. He slung it disdainfully on the table.
"Thank you," Matt said. "That's a big one. I won't need anything else for several days."
His politeness brought no response.
"Sit here," he ordered. He hesitated. "I never thought as how I'd have to teach anyone to read. But I have figured a way to start."
Silently the boy sat down, as straight and rigid as a cedar post. When Matt hunched himself onto the other stool, the boy's scowl deepened. Plainly he did not like having the white boy so close to him. Attean had no need to be finicky, Matt thought. He smelled none too sweet himself. The grease smeared on his body, even on his hair, stunk up the whole cabin. It was supposed to keep off the mosquitoes, he'd heard, but he thought he'd rather have the pesky insects himself. He drew a letter on the birch bark.
"This is the first letter," he explained. "A. A for arm."
He repeated this several times, pointing to his own arm. Attean kept to his stubborn, scornful silence. Matt set his jaw. He could be stubborn too, he de
cided. He opened Robinson Crusoe.
"We'll pick out the A's on this page," he said, trying to control his impatience. He pointed. "Now you show me one."
Attean stared straight ahead of him in silence. Then, to Matt's astonishment, he grudgingly laid a grubby finger on a letter A.
"Good," said Matt, copying the word Saknis used so often. "Find another."
Suddenly the boy broke his silence. "White man's book foolish," he scoffed. "Write arm, arm, arm all over paper."
Puzzled at first, Matt saw his own mistake. "Hundreds of other words begin with A" he explained. "Or have A in them. And there are twenty-five more letters."
Attean scowled. "How long?" he demanded.
"What do you mean?"
"How long Attean learn signs in book?"
"It will take some time," Matt said. "There are a lot of long words in this book."
"One moon?"
"One month? Of course not. It might take a year." With one swift jerk of his arm, Attean knocked the book from the table. Before Matt could speak, he was out of the cabin and gone.
"Reckon that's the end of the lessons," Matt said to himself. Cheerfully he began to skin the rabbit.
CHAPTER 8
BY THE NEXT MORNING HE WAS HALF SORRY THE BOY would not be coming again. He didn't know whether he was annoyed or relieved when Attean walked through the door without a sign of greeting and sat down at the table.
Matt decided to skip B for bone. In the night he had thought of a better way.
"This book isn't a treaty," he began. "It's a story. It's about a man who gets shipwrecked on a desert island. I'll read some of it out loud to show you."
He opened Robinson Crusoe at the first page and began to read.
I was born in the year 1632,
in the city of York....
He stopped. He remembered suddenly how the first time he had tried to read this book he had found that first page so dull he had come close to giving up right there. He had better skip the beginning and get on with the story if he wanted to catch Attean's attention.
"I'll read the part about the storm at sea," he said.
He had read the book so many times that he knew exactly where to find the right page. Taking a deep breath, as though he were struggling in the water himself, he chose the page where Robinson Crusoe was dashed from the lifeboat and swallowed up in the sea.
Nothing can describe the confusion of thought which I felt when I sunk into the water, for though I swam very well, yet I could not deliver myself from the waves so as to draw breath ... for I saw the sea come after me as high as a great bill, and as furious as an enemy....
Matt looked up from the page. There was not a flicker of interest in the boy's face. Had he understood a single word? Discouraged, he laid down the book. What did a storm at sea mean to a savage who had lived all his life in the forest?
"Well," he said lamely, "it gets better as you go along."
Once more Attean took him by surprise. "White man get out of water?" he asked.
"Oh yes," Matt said, delighted. "Everyone else on the ship is drowned. He gets thrown up all alone on an island."
The Indian nodded. He seemed satisfied.
"Shall I read more of it?"
Attean nodded again. "Go now," he said. Come back seba"
The next morning there was no question of B for bone. Matt had the book open and waiting at the part he wanted to read.
"This is about the morning after the storm," he explained. "Robinson Crusoe looks out and sees that part of the ship hasn't sunk yet. He swims out and manages to save some things and carry them to shore." He began to read.
Once again it was impossible to tell whether Attean understood. Presently Matt slowed down. It was discouraging, reading to a wooden post. But Attean spoke at once.
"White man not smart like Indian," he said scornfully. "Indian not need thing from ship. Indian make all thing he need."
Disappointed and cross, Matt put the book down. They might as well get on with the alphabet. He drew a B on the birchbark.
After Attean had gone, Matt kept thinking about Robinson Crusoe and all the useful things he had managed to salvage from that ship. He had found a carpenter's chest, for instance. Bags of nails. Two barrels of bullets. And a dozen hatchets—a dozen! Why, Matt and his father had come up here to Maine with one axe and an adz. They had cut down trees and built this whole cabin and the table and the stools without a single nail. Crusoe had found a hammock to sleep in instead of prickly hemlock boughs. He could see now how it must have sounded to Attean. Come to think of it, Robinson Crusoe had lived like a king on that desert island!
CHAPTER 9
A FEW MORNINGS LATER, AT THE END OF THE LESSON, Matt delayed Attean.
"How did you kill that rabbit?" he asked, pointing to the offering Attean had thrown on the table. "There's no bullet hole in it."
"Indian not use bullet for rabbit," Attean answered scornfully.
"Then how? There's no hole at all."
For a moment it seemed that Attean would not bother to answer. Then the Indian shrugged. "Attean show," he said. "Come."
Matt was dumfounded. It was the first sign the Indian had given of—well, of what exactly? He had not sounded friendly. But there was not time to puzzle this out right now. Attean was walking across the clearing, and he apparently expected Matt to follow. Pleased and curious, Matt hobbled after him, grateful that he no longer needed the crutch.
At the edge of the clearing the Indian stopped and searched the ground. Presently he stooped down under a black spruce tree, poked into the dirt, and jerked up a long, snakelike root. He drew from the leather pouch at his belt a curious sort of knife, the blade curved into a hook. With one sure stroke, he split one end of the root, then peeled off the bark by pulling at it with his teeth. He separated the whole length into two strands, which he spliced together by rolling them against his bare thigh. Next he searched about in the bushes till he found two forked saplings about three feet apart. He trimmed the twigs from these, drawing his knife toward his chest as Matt had been taught not to do. Then he cut a stout branch, and rested it lightly across the forks of his saplings. From the threadlike root he made a noose and suspended it from the stick so that it hung just above the ground. He worked without speaking, and it seemed to Matt that all this took him no time at all.
"Rabbit run into trap," he said finally. "Pull stick into bush, so white boy can kill."
"Golly," said Matt, filled with admiration. "I hadn't thought of making a snare. I didn't know you could make one without string or wire."
"Make more," Attean ordered, pointing into the woods. "Not too close."
After Attean had gone, Matt managed to make two more snares. They were clumsy things, and he was not too proud of them. Splitting a slippery root, he discovered, was not so easy as it had looked. He spoiled a number of them before he mastered the trick of splicing them together. They did not slide as easily as the one Attean had made, but they seemed strong enough.
Next morning he showed his traps to Attean. He had hoped for some sign of approval, but all he got was a grunt and a shrug. He knew that to Attean his work must look childish. However, on the third day one of his own snares had been upset, though the animal had got away. The day after that, to his joy, there was actually a partridge struggling to free itself in the bushes where the stick had caught. This time the grunt with which Attean rewarded him sounded very much like his grandfather's "Good." Silently the Indian watched as Matt reset the snare. Then they walked back to the cabin, Matt swinging his catch as nonchalantly as he had seen Attean do.
"You don't need to bring me any more food," he boasted. "I'll catch my own meat from now on."
Nevertheless, Attean continued to bring him some offering every morning. Not always fresh meat. He seemed to know exactly when Matt had finished the last scrap of rabbit or duck. Sometimes he brought a slab of corn cake, or a pouch full of nuts, once a small cake of maple sugar. Plainly he felt bound to keep the t
erms of his grandfather's treaty.
Matt stuck to his part of the bargain as well, though the lessons were an ordeal for them both. Matt knew well enough what a poor teacher he was. Sometimes it seemed that Attean was learning in spite of him. Once the Indian had resigned himself to mastering twenty-six letters, he took them in a gulp, scorning the childish candle and door and table that Matt had devised. Soon he was spelling out simple words. The real trouble was that Attean was contemptuous, that the whole matter of white man's words seemed to him nonsense. Impatiently they hurried through the lessons to get on with Robinson Crusoe. Matt suspected that the only reason Attean agreed to come back day after day was that he wanted to hear more of that story.
Skipping over the pages that sounded like sermons, Matt chose the sections he liked best himself. Now he came to the rescue of the man Friday. Attean sat quietly, and Matt almost forgot him in his own enjoyment of his favorite scene.
There was the mysterious footprint on the sand, the canoes drawn up on the lonely beach, and the strange, wild-looking men with two captives. One of the captives they mercilessly slaughtered. The fire was set blazing for a cannibal feast.
Then the second captive made a desperate escape, running straight to where Crusoe stood watching. Two savages pursued him with horrid yells. Matt glanced up from the book and saw that Attean's eyes were gleaming. He hurried on. No need to skip here. Crusoe struck a mighty blow at the first cannibal, knocking him senseless. Then, seeing that the other was fitting an arrow into his bow, he shot and killed him. Matt read on:
The poor savage who fled, hut had stopped, though he saw both his enemies had fallen ... yet was so frightened with the noise and fire of my piece, that he stood stock-still, and neither came forward nor went backward.... I hallooed again to him, and made signs to him to come forward, which he easily understood, and came a little way, then stopped again.... he stood trembling as if he had been taken prisoner, and just been to be killed, as his two enemies were. I beckoned to him again to come to me, and gave him all signs of encouragement, that I could think of; and he came nearer and nearer, kneeling down every ten or twelve steps, in token of acknowledgment for saving his life. I smiled at him, and looked pleasantly, and beckoned to him to come still nearer. At length he came close to me, and then he kneeled down again, kissed the ground, and, taking my foot, set it upon his head. This, it seemed, was a token of swearing to be my slave forever....
The Sign of the Beaver Page 3