by Janie DeVos
The kiss was like liquid heat, and his one hand moved from my hair to the back of my head, while the other remained around my waist, holding me firmly to him. Wanting to be closer still, I wrapped my arms around his neck as if he was a life preserver in a turbulent sea. His lips were both salty and warm, but it was the heat of his tongue, which he hungrily intertwined with mine, that gave away the true depth of his passion. We attempted to end the kiss once or twice, but each time one of us couldn’t bear it, and the kiss began again. Finally, Striker pulled back from me, looking into my eyes intensely.
“We have to go now,” he said in a low husky voice, the sound of it affecting me nearly as much as his kiss had.
“Yes, I…we do,” I answered so softly that I could barely hear my own words. Then he released me and I turned away without saying anything else.
I climbed into the boat while Striker untied the rope from the tree and pushed us off the beach, setting a course for home. As he did, I looked back at the sand where I’d forgotten to retrieve the jar of sea glass. I felt as if I’d left the last vestiges of my childhood behind with it.
Three weeks later, after spending several more glorious afternoons with Striker, sailing the bay, picnicking, and even sharing a candlelight supper at the Royal Palm Hotel one Saturday evening, I began to think that perhaps we were starting to build something as strong and durable as one of his boats. But, just as I was beginning to believe in the potential of our relationship, Striker’s parents were killed when they hit that reef in the boat he’d built for them. Something in Striker died along with his parents. Immediately, he distanced himself from everything and everyone he ever cared about, including me. He preferred, instead, to be completely isolated and apart from it all, just like the lighthouse he took care of, standing alone at sea, miles from the nearest shore.
Chapter 8
A Battle Half Won
A mongrel dog’s barking drew me out of my thoughts about Striker, and I realized I was no more than a couple hundred yards from the Seminole village. Taking a deep breath, I tried to collect my thoughts so that I was no longer dwelling on the past. As I began to silently recite my speech once again, the dog ran up and took a nip at my left bootie, startling both Sundae and me. My horse pranced away from the dog, and I held the reins a little tighter and spoke softly to her, trying to keep her calm, all while kicking out at the dog to get him away from us. But each time I did, he tried to bite me again. Finally, I took the end of the reins and popped the dog on the top of the head with them. The little dog gave out a sharp cry, more of surprise than hurt, and ran off with his tail between his legs. Now, if I can only get Paroh to submit as easily, I thought, though I knew my odds were far better with the dog than with the chief.
As I came to the edge of the village, I realized that all of the people had stopped their activities to see who I was and what I wanted. When I held my hand up in greeting, they seemed to relax a little, especially after they realized that they knew me from the trading post, and that I was Max Harjo’s daughter.
“Eliza!” I heard someone calling my name to the left of me and turned to see Rose—the young woman who made the lovely jewelry—coming toward me with a basket full of guava fruit.
“Oh, Rose! I’m glad to see you!” The relief was evident in my voice.
“Why you come to the village?” she asked, not unkindly.
“I’ve come to see Paroh Monday. I want to talk to him about teaching the children to read and write.”
The quizzical smile on her face instantly faded. “You mean the boys to read the English,” she tried to clarify, so that there would be no misunderstanding.
“Well, maybe at first…” I said, knowing I had to tread softly, even with my friend. “But I’m hoping that maybe he’ll allow the girls to join us…”
Before I could finish, she set down her basket, glanced over her shoulder as though she was afraid someone else had heard me, and then closed the distance between us. “No, no, Miss Eliza!” Rose said in a hushed but urgent way. “Girls don’t read the English! The elders not like it! They say it bad for us.”
“Surely you believe that’s pure hogwash, don’t you, Rose? You’re a smart girl. You know better than that. Y’all deal with the white world on a daily basis, and in order to do so without being taken advantage of, you have to know how to read a sign in a window, or be able to add and subtract numbers.”
“Well…yes. I like,” she admitted, “but…”
“But what, Rose? There is absolutely no reason for y’all not to read and write in the English language as well as I do. It’s just plain ignorant not to!”
With those last words, Rose’s eyes squinted slightly and I could see I’d insulted her or hit a nerve. “No go sayin’ that to Paroh, Miss Eliza! Following the old ways don’t make us stupid. No. We honor them. It’s something we still have that the white man hasn’t stolen from us.”
If the girl had thrown a bucket of cold water in my face, it wouldn’t have snapped me out of my one-sided thinking any faster. Her words were plain enough. In truth, I’d never considered the issue from that perspective, but she was right. These proud and intelligent people had had enough stolen away from them by the greedy hands of the white world; those few things they had left in the way of traditions were going to be held on to for as long as they could.
“Rose, I’m sorry. I never meant to insult you or your people, or to tell you that the white people’s ways are better than the Seminoles’. But I’ve seen your people cheated more times than I can count when y’all are on the lawn at the trading post.” The Seminoles had a surprisingly good relationship with the Brickells, poling their canoes downriver from the Everglades with loads of goods to trade: egret plumes, alligator steaks, eggs and skins, and coontie starch for thickening soups and stews. “I can hear what’s going on outside the window when I’m at the cash register. I can hear y’all negotiating your trades loud n’ clear. I’ve had a mind to walk out there and straighten some of your customers out a time or two when they’ve tried pulling a fast one on you. But when I’m waiting on folks, I just can’t go stompin’ out there to tell y’all you’re bein’ taken advantage of. Besides, Mrs. Brickell would have put up a fit if I had.”
The pretty young Seminole woman said nothing for a few seconds but stood there looking at me intently, as though she was debating whether or not it was foolish to take me to see Paroh. “Come, Miss,” she concluded with a sigh that seemed to say that the logical side of her had just lost the argument. “We’ll see if Paroh is back yet. He was still out burning the grass when I left for the fruit.” Looking off in the distance, I could see a blanket of thick gray smoke rising up from the sawgrass, perhaps a mile away from the village. I knew from stories my half-Creek father had told me that the Indians did this so that new grass would grow in the burned areas, which would lure the deer in to eat the sweet young shoots. It was an old but easy way of hunting them.
I dismounted from Sundae and, leading her by the reins, followed Rose into the village. There were fifteen or so open-air dwellings called chickees arranged in a circle, with the exception of one which was larger and set back a little from the rest. It was obvious that it was the eating house because women were preparing food over an open fire right next to it. Suddenly, I ran into Rose’s back when she stopped unexpectedly while I was watching the women cooking. “Over there,” she said, jutting her chin forward to indicate which direction she was referring to. “Paroh comes.”
Twenty or so men, some on foot and some on horseback, entered the village to the left of us. A man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, and was of medium height and build, was walking in the middle of the group and speaking Miccosukee. Though I didn’t understand a thing he was saying, all the men with him were hanging on to his every word. He was dressed in a long patchwork tunic, well-worn tan buckskin breeches, and a turban that was made from a large, red, plaid cotton scarf. On the side of
the turban was a small ostrich feather, which indicated that he was indeed the chief of this village. It was secured in place by a round beaten-silver medallion. Beneath the turban, his hair was a little shorter than the other men’s and a little lighter in color, too. His was more of a dusty-brown color. Though he wasn’t extremely tall, there was something large about him, something proud and different that set him apart from the others.
One of the men must have said something about me for his head quickly turned in my direction and his forward motion slowed just enough to let me know he was surprised to see a white person—especially a white female person—in his camp. Quickly recovering from his momentary surprise, he smiled politely and immediately came toward me. I wasn’t sure what to do or say, but Rose quickly stepped in to help me.
She began talking to him in their native language, and gesturing toward me as she did. The man’s piercing dark eyes looked me over, assessing me, but I felt as though he was looking right through me. Other than hearing her mention my name, and Papa’s, I didn’t understand anything they said. The language they spoke was my father’s native language; and though he’d tried teaching Dylan and me some basic Muskogee words, I’d never had an ear for it. However, whatever Rose was saying obviously didn’t put him off, for his smile remained in place as he responded while still keeping his eyes on me.
“Paroh says he remembers you when you and your good father brought the medicine water to help Liddy Tiger’s baby, Emanuel,” Rose said.
I honestly couldn’t remember having seen Paroh then, but I wouldn’t dare say as much. “Please tell him that it’s an honor to be in his presence again.” I smiled and bowed my head slightly.
The two of them spoke for another moment and she must have explained my reason for being there, for his smile instantly faded. When he spoke again, his tempo increased and his words sounded slightly terse. Rose kept her voice low and in control, and I respected her for it. She was obviously holding her own.
Finally, she turned to me and said, “Paroh wishes for you to join him.” When I looked away from Rose and back to the man to tell him I’d be happy to, he was already walking away. Apparently, he assumed there’d be no argument on my part.
As I approached Paroh’s chickee, I could see that it was slightly larger than the others, with the floor raised about three feet off the ground. The raised construction was an effective way of keeping deadly swamp critters out of people’s homes. Paroh did not offer a hand to help me, but waited as I hiked up my dress and stepped up; then he gestured over to two chairs. The chief walked away from me and removed his turban. Picking a pipe and tobacco pouch up from a small table, he filled the pipe’s bowl, then worked at lighting it. While he did, I took the opportunity to look around at the neatly kept home. Canvas curtains had been rolled up and hung from the rafters of the palmetto palm thatched roof, keeping them safe and dry until they were needed again to keep out the rain or cold. There were also ‘comfortables’ stored up there, which were blankets or hides used for bedding. Clothing hung from the wooden beams as well as fishing nets, and several different sizes of knives, as well as a couple of rifles. This man was quite wealthy compared to other villagers.
Suddenly, Rose appeared at my side, startling me, and offered a tin cup filled with freshly squeezed papaya juice. The cool, rich, orange-red juice soothed my parched throat and I drank it down at once. She told me she would bring more, but I asked her for a drink of water instead, and then wished I hadn’t, for I desperately wanted to get this conversation between Paroh and me underway, and I would need Rose to do that. However, Paroh turned toward me, exhaled pipe smoke, and then asked: “Why do you want to teach the red children?”
Hearing him speak English caught me off guard. I’d just assumed he didn’t since Rose had translated for him. But I was relieved that we could carry on a conversation ourselves so that nothing could get lost in translation.
“Mr. Paroh…I beg your pardon, Mr. Monday, I feel it’s in the best interest of your people to be able to read and work with numbers. As I told Rose—”
He cut me off immediately. “No, no! No ‘people’! Boys, maybe, but no girls. No, no, no!” He was adamant.
“But, Mr. Paroh—I mean Monday.” Lord, I was flustered already, and we’d been conversing for less than a minute! I took a deep breath and started again in a more measured tone. “Mr. Monday, if you’re gonna do business in the white world, then you need to be better prepared to do it. Too often, I’ve seen y’all taken advantage of down at Mrs. Brickell’s—you know, the White Chief.” He smiled at my use of his people’s name for her. “That’s not what I’d call her, but that’s a conversation for another time,” I said under my breath. But even under my breath, he’d heard me, and he threw his head back and laughed for he clearly understood my meaning. I realized then that this man had a firm grasp on the English language, as well as a good sense of humor.
“Mr. Monday, may I ask you something?” I laughed, relieved that he’d found my small slight against Mrs. Brickell so humorous.
“Somehow, Miss Harjo, I think you will anyway,” he quipped.
My smile lessened a little. “Yes…well. Mr. Monday, who taught you how to speak English so well?”
There was a definite twinkle in his black, intense eyes. “My grandmother was from Omaha, Nebraska. She was as white as coconut meat.”
Smiling at his comparison, I said, “And I assume you’re glad you can speak English—since you trade with white people, ’n all?” It was really more a statement than a question.
“Not always. No,” he said, watching me closely.
I was genuinely surprised. “Would you mind telling me why?”
“Because,” he began, sitting down in the chair next to me. “If I didn’t speak English then I wouldn’t understand the ugly things the white man says, calling me as low as a gator, and about as dumb as one, too. I know they’re cheating us at times, Miss Harjo. But what the white man doesn’t know is that for every deal he cheats a Seminole on, that Seminole is turning around and cheating him twice as badly. Do you think that when we name our price on something we’re selling or trading, it’s always the same amount for the white man as it is for the red?”
“I…um…well. I always assumed it was.” I was quite humbled by my naïveté.
“And every white person between here and the bay Biscayne assumes the same thing,” he continued. “We always deal fairly with those who deal fairly with us. But, when it comes to the matter of cheating, as your people are so fond of saying: ‘Two can play that game.’
“But getting back to the reason for your visit, I will allow you to give the boys lessons, and there might be a few of the men who would like to learn, too. But, I’ll only permit you to do this on one condition.”
“I bet I can guess what that is,” I said, somewhat sarcastically. “No females allowed.”
“You’re a fast learner, Miss Harjo,” he said, beaming.
“But Mr. Monday!”
“Apparently, I’m faster than you,” he said with an amused smile. Regardless of the fact that I wasn’t getting my way, I had to admit that his smile was warm, kind.
“Won’t you reconsider letting the girls take a few simple lessons, too?” I had to try one last time.
“Can’t you be happy with the fact that you won half the battle?” he asked, much like a patient father.
“I guess I’m not used to losing many battles,” I answered honestly.
“Well, Miss Harjo, take it from someone who knows all too well about losing battles: Grab that fifty percent while you got the chance and run like hell.”
I left the camp, agreeing to return at the beginning of the week, and set a leisurely pace with Sundae. Only halfway content over the outcome of my conversation with Paroh, I was still far from giving up the battle about teaching just the males. But, for now, I’d follow the chief’s advice and take what I could g
et.
As I was enjoying the beauty of the vast marshland, I suddenly remembered that I had specifically wanted to look for the dredging machinery that was rerouting the Glades’ natural water flow. Scanning the area, I didn’t see any sign of the machines, but I was afraid it was only a matter of time before I would. It frightened me to think of what would become of this beautiful fragile wetland, but I pushed the thought from my mind and decided to enjoy this place.
Out in the shallow water, thick with sawgrass, I saw a large, dark gray-blue anhinga watching the water closely for its next meal. Suddenly, it speared a small fish and then whipped his head upward, which dislodged the blue gill fish from its dagger-like bill and sent it skyward. Then the bird caught it and gulped it down. Almost immediately, another movement caught my eye and I spotted the top of a small rough-skinned, dark gray skull making its way quietly through the water toward the bird. Seconds later, the alligator’s eyes and snout arose just above the water line, leaving no doubt that it had been watching the anhinga, too. But the giant bird was aware of it, for just as the gator picked up speed, the anhinga beat the air hard with its mighty wings and flew off before the reptile could grab it.
Looking down, I watched the beautiful white water hyacinths flowing along in the river beside me, gently and quietly ushering me out of their sacred place. It was a water wilderness that was never intended to be owned by anyone, yet the land unselfishly gave what it could to whoever needed to take from it. All it asked in return was to be respected. What the Seminole had always known but the white man was not ready to learn, was that once the land was abused, there could be no turning back to right the wrong, and when that happened, the land would find its own way to strike back.
Chapter 9
A Man of Many Places
I sat at a small table in the living area at Fowey Rocks lighthouse reading the list of the keepers’ duties that was framed and hanging from the wall.