The snow came in the night, softly, silently, very white, very thick, and soon very deep. The Natchee stayed by their fires, as did we. However, later in the day I went out and after much persuading and tugging, got the calf into the cave. He would not stay, but ran outside and into the snow.
“He like snow,” Keokotah said. “Animal like snow.”
“Tell them not to hunt near the opening of the valley,” I suggested to Keokotah. “There will be no tracks to see.”
The days went by slowly, and when I could I talked to the Natchee or to Keokotah and his woman.
Her people hunted southeast from us, she told us. As to where they had come from she did not know, only that it had been a very good place. It was “over there” and now she was “here.” It did not seem to matter, for they had always been somewhere. Her grandfather had lived far from here, and his father still farther.
When I could I led her to talk, and when she understood that Keokotah approved she talked willingly enough. Gradually her story became the story of many small migrating tribes, moving from place to place over the years. Often they remained for many years in one general area, and then, pushed out by others or because of drouth or the scarcity of wildlife, they moved on. Their warriors went off on raids or were raided.
I saw little of Itchakomi. She held herself aloof, although once or twice I caught her looking our way. My message had been delivered and my responsibility had ended. Yet she had spoken with Keokotah and with his Acho woman.
In all this time we saw nothing of Kapata or of the Conejeros. Faithfully, we all stayed away from the opening into the valley so as to leave no visible indication of our presence. We kept our fires to a minimum and tried not to burn them when the wind would take the smoke down through the opening along the creek. Nevertheless, I knew it was merely a matter of time.
Despite the early snow the aspen trees were a river of gold flowing along the mountain and spilling down its sides. I stood by the creek one day simply soaking up the rare beauty of the late autumn, when suddenly Itchakomi was nearby.
On this day she wore white buckskins, beaded and worked with porcupine quills. She was, without doubt, a woman of rare beauty.
Standing there with a background of the golden leaves of the aspen she was something no one could look at and remain unmoved.
“You are beautiful!” I said, the words bursting from me, without warning.
She turned her head and gave me a cool, direct look. “What is it ‘beautiful’?” she asked.
The question put me at a loss for words. How to explain beauty? “The aspen are beautiful,” I said. “The sunrise is beautiful.”
“You think me like the aspen?”
“Yes.” How did I get into this? “You are slender and lovely to look at.”
She looked at me again. “You are courting me?”
The question stopped me cold. I gulped, hesitated, and then said, “Well, not exactly, I—”
“It does not matter!” she spoke sharply. “I am a Sun. You arenothing , a stranger.”
“To you I am nothing. To me I am something.”
She shrugged, but she did not walk away. “What will happen if you are not there and the Great Sun dies?” I asked.
For several minutes she did not speak, but I had an idea the question had been worrying her, also. “There will be another to take his place until I return.”
“A woman can rule?”
“It has been so.”
“Often?”
“No … once, I believe.”
“The plains are wide and very cold. There are terrible storms of wind and snow, or I would take you back—”
“I do not need to be taken. When I wish to go, I shall go.” She gestured. “This is a good place.”
A soft wind stirred the aspens into shimmering golden beauty. A few leaves fell, dropping like a shower of golden coins onto the snow. The red leaves of the scrub oak clung stubbornly, not to be worried by any such gentle wind. The stream rustled along its banks, a thin coating of ice near its edges slowly dissolving into water again.
“Did you find the place you sought?”
She hesitated. “I did not. I found where the river comes from the mountains. It is a good place.” She looked around. “This also is a good place.” She glanced at me. “It is yours?”
“We found it, Keokotah and I. It is yours if you wish it.”
“If it be not yours you cannot give it.” Her chin lifted. “The earth belongs to the Great Sun. He lives where he wishes.”
“It is a good place where you live,” I said, “a pity to leave it.”
She shrugged. “We shall not. I came to find a new place because the Great Sun wished it. I do not believe there is danger.”
“You were visited by a trader?”
“No trader. A boat with men came. They stopped with us. They traded some things. They went away.” She shrugged. “It was nothing.”
We were silent for a few minutes and then I said. “There will be change. White men are coming, and they will not come only to pass on. Some will stay. They will not believe in the Great Sun. Their way of life will be different. Some of your people may wish to trade. Some of them may change.”
“They will not. Our way is the best way. Our people know it.”
Reluctantly I said, “There are Englishmen in what we call Virginia, and in Carolina. There are Spanishmen in Florida. The people who live near them are changing. They often make war on the English or Spanish and often it is because they want things they cannot trade for.
“The tribes who live near the white man are coming to desire the white man’s things. They sometimes do not wish to live in the old way.”
“The Natchee will not change.”
For a long moment I hesitated and then I said, “I fear there will be no future for those who do not change. When there are no new ideas things can remain the same, but strangers are coming with different ways—”
“There are strangers in our villages. There has been no change.”
“I noticed one of your men with a steel knife, a white man’s knife. That is change. I saw one of your women sewing with a steel needle. That is change. Do not others want such knives and needles?”
“We do not need them.”
“Need and desire have no connection,” I said. “Many people desire things they do not need. Happiness can be measured by what one does not need, but often to see is to want.
“For many years,” I spoke quietly, “all was the same in the villages of the tribes. There were no new ideas. You knew all that lay about you. The weapons your warriors had were the same as those of other tribes. Now some tribes will have guns, and all will change. In the north the Dutch and the English have traded guns to the Iroquois, and the Iroquois—”
“I do not know Iroquois.”
“It is said that several tribes have come together to fight as one. The Seneca are one such tribe. Now they have begun destroying the tribes that live near them.
“And what of the Creeks? Your neighbors? Some of them have guns. It is whispered they are no longer friendly.”
She was silent, and I knew she was thinking of what I had said. She did not like it, but she was thinking about it. Leaves fell again from the aspen, and some fell into her hair, making there a small diadem of gold. I looked away.
This was no time for me to be thinking of a woman’s beauty. I had mountains to cross.
“You live on a great river,” I said, “and men have always sought the great rivers because they lead to the sea, and to trade with other peoples. They will come to your river, too, and they will come in greater numbers than all your people, and they will come with their weapons and their desires.
“They will know nothing of the Great Sun, nor will most of them care. They will have their own beliefs and their own rulers, and you will have to defend your land, by talk if possible, by war if necessary.”
After a moment she said, “I cannot believe what you speak. The man you
call De Soto and his Men of Fire came, and they are gone, and nothing happened. The Great Sun said they would go and be forgotten, and they were.
“Whispers have come to us of other Men of Fire wearing iron shirts who came into the Far Seeing Lands, and they, too, are gone.”
“Others will come who will not go away. At first they will look for gold or pearls but then they will want land. Your people must be prepared for this.”
She shook her head. “Nothing will change. Nothing ever has.”
Well, what could I say? She spoke from her experience and the remembered experience of her oldest men. Year followed year, season followed season, and day followed day, and the rites of the seasons were performed and all remained the same.
There had to be a way to reach her, yet … “Itchakomi, your people have not lived here forever. Have you not found old graves, old stone tools, different kinds of arrowheads?”
“So?”
“Those who passed on before you did not expect change, either, but change came. Does the leaf on the tree know winter is coming? Does the leaf know it will fall and crumble away among other leaves? If your people would survive they must be prepared.
“You are here because some among your wise men believed a new home must be found, but a new home is not the answer, for when they come they will leave no place untouched.
“See?I am here. Why? Because I wanted to see, to know, to understand. I wanted to go beyond the Great River. I wanted to go beyond the plains. I want even to go beyond these mountains where we now are. I think I am in this world to find beauty in lonely places. At least, that is what I wish to think.
“My father was the same. Why did he leave his home in the fens? Why did he cross the sea to this far land? Why, when he had a home at Shooting Creek, did he wish to go beyond the far blue mountains? I do not know, but I think it is something buried within us, something that makes us long for the far places.
“Nor do I believe it will stop here. When men have gone down the longest rivers, climbed the highest mountains, and crossed the greatest deserts there will still be the stars.”
“Thestars? “
“Sakim, my old teacher, told me that some wise men in India and China believed the stars were suns like ours and that somewhere out there were other worlds. Who knows if this is true or not? But do you think men will be content to wonder? Someday they will find a way to the stars and an answer to their questions.”
She looked at me with wonderment. “You talk strangely. Why are you not content with this?”
“It is man’s nature, Itchakomi, to wonder, and thank all the gods for it. It is through wonder that we come to know.” I was silent for a moment, thinking how long their world must have remained undisturbed, their people slowly becoming content with what they had and what was near. With us in Europe it was otherwise. Our rivers and our many harbors had let strangers come with strange ideas, and our people had changed. There had been migrations from other parts of Europe and Asia, each bringing new customs, new ways. It had brought war and trouble, but it had brought change also.
We stood together in silence, I with my thoughts and she with hers, the stream rustling at our feet. Low clouds had come, and they rested in the silent valleys among the hills, and with mountains looming above. Slowly a few flakes began to fall, drawing a thin, delicate veil across the morning.
“We had better go back,” I said.
She turned and looked straight at me for a moment, but said nothing. We walked back together, and then she went to her cave and I to mine.
Several days passed in which I hunted, and scouted the mountains to the west, finding another even higher valley than this where we were, and one to which we might retreat if necessary. I found a shelter and gathered wood against a time of need. It was ever my way to prepare for the possible, even if improbable. Now, in the event we had to flee from where we were, we would know where shelter was and where wood was gathered. I moved away from the place, choosing landmarks and other trail markers that could be found at night.
It was a good place, that upper valley, and I spoke of it to Keokotah, telling him of the shelter cave and the wood. “There may be a better place,” I said, “but at least it is a place.”
Somewhere out there was Kapata, for I did not believe he was one to quit. Somewhere were the Conejeros, but the snow was still falling and there was hope they would not discover our retreat.
That day I began for the first time to set traps for fur. If the time came when I returned to civilization I would need money, and furs were the most certain source. But we might need the furs for ourselves. I was afraid it was going to be a long winter.
Keokotah hunted each day, and each day returned with game. Often he went alone, sometimes with one of the Natchee. One night beside the fire he spoke suddenly.
“They look for us.”
Startled, I looked around at him. “Who?”
He shrugged. “Conejeros. Kapata. I do not know. Somebody. “
“You saw tracks? Inside the valley?”
“Outside. I am over the mountain. I am in the trees. Among the trees,” he amended. “I see five mans. They look for tracks.”
That sounded like Kapata. I doubted the Conejeros believed we were still about, but Kapata would be sure of it. The Conejeros did not need to find us, but Kapata did.
Of course, it came as no surprise. We had known he would be searching for us.
It was on the third day of the snow that I went to the cave mouth and looked out. All was white and still. The snow was no longer falling, but the tree branches bent under their weight of snow and wherever we looked it was a white, white world. Turning, I walked back into the cave. Keokotah was sleeping.
Suddenly I wished I had a book. It had been so long since I had read. Could a man forget how to read? The idea worried me. I checked our supply of meat. There was enough to last a long time, but we would need to hunt when we could. I found myself wishing for Keokotah’s pasnuta, the creature with the long nose. Some kind of long-haired elephant would provide us with enough meat to last for a long time.
The thought amused me. The only elephants I had heard of had been from India or Africa, places that were warm most of the time. It was unlikely an elephant could survive in this country in winter, but I knew little of the beasts. In any event it was purely idle speculation.
Returning to the cave mouth I stood where I could look out over the valley. Because of falling snow I could not see the entrance to the valley.
Should we move to the upper valley now? It would be colder, and we would not have as much fuel. Our meat we could take with us.
Glancing around I saw Itchakomi. She put her hand out to catch a snowflake. It hit her palm and then vanished. She gave a little cry of amazement. “It is gone!”
“They melt quickly sometimes.”
She looked at me. “You have seen snow?”
“Much of it on the mountains, and once we hunted far to the north and there was snow. We returned home.”
“Will it stay?”
“For months, I think. Five or six moons,” I suggested. “I do not know. Some years are colder than others.”
“It is not a good place for my people,” she said. “They do not understand.”
“They could learn, and there is much game.” I pointed toward the western hills. “They could lose themselves in the mountains. It is beautiful there.”
“I shall go back,” she said.
“I shall go west, I think. Or perhaps I’ll stay here, at the edge of the plains.” I had not thought of it until that moment but suddenly I decided. I would stay. I would find a place somewhere along the edge of the mountains, and stay.
The thought was strange to me, who thought only of wandering. A foolish thought that would go away. I was sure of that. Yet the idea lingered.
“Here?” she looked around. “But you are alone! There will be nobody!”
I shrugged. “I am often alone. It is my nature.”
�
��But you would need a woman!”
“In time I’d find one.” I smiled. “Maybe even a Conejero woman. Or an Acho, like Keokotah.”
Her eyes were cool. She glanced at me and then looked away.
“Indian men need women to prepare the hides for them,” I said. “After a hunt there is much work, but I can do my own, and have done them. On this trip I have made moccasins, and when necessary I can make my leggings and jacket. When I marry it will be for love.”
“Love? What is love?”
It was something of which I knew nothing, yet something of which I had thought a good deal. Too much for a man who did not intend to take a woman … yet.
“It is something between a man and woman, something that goes beyond just being man and woman. It is a feeling between them, a sharing of interests, a walking together, it is—”
Keokotah was suddenly there. “Somebody comes!” he said.
Stepping to a place where I could look through the trees, I saw them.
Two men standing beside the creek, looking toward us.
Chapter Eighteen.
We held ourselves still, knowing a movement might be seen, hoping no smoke was visible from the caves behind and above us. After several minutes of looking around they turned to go, crossing the stream and walking back toward the way they had come.
“Conejeros!” Keokotah said.
Neither of us replied. We simply watched. I know my heart was beating slowly, heavily. I thought of my guns back in the cave. It was foolish to have them and not carry them always. When their time would come I did not know, but they were something on which to rely, something that might save us all.
The Conejeros had probably fought the Spanishmen, so they would be familiar with guns, but mine were far more accurate than any other firing weapons I had ever seen. Of their kind they were masterpieces, as their maker had intended them to be. My future might depend on them, and that of Itchakomi.
Now the strangers were gone, or apparently gone. Still we did not move, for they might yet be within sight of us, might turn and look back. “Thank God,” I said, “there were no tracks!”
Jubal Sackett (1985) Page 14