Thomas still does not speak, Papa. Again, all day the old Indian carried him in his arms and shared his food with him. We waded an icy river, then climbed into a canoe, and hacked through thin ice to move downriver.
Where do we go? How many days have we been gone? How far are we from thee now? Papa, do not forget us.
Perhaps it has been a week since our capture, Papa. I cannot tell. Today we passed a burned settlement and saw charred bodies on the riverbank. I held Thomas against me so he could not see. The old Indian watches me with dark, unfathomable eyes. Will they burn us, too?
Second day on the river. At twilight the Indians camped on shore, peeled bark from trees and built a shelter held up by four logs. I tried to eat cornmeal and smoked fish, but cannot swallow.
In the afternoon, the sound of drums came from the forest beyond the shore. Smoke was rising into the gray sky.
As they took us ashore into Indian camp, dogs barked, and children ran to stare. Women and men stood frozen, watching us. Maybe fifty in all.
Our captors led us to a hut, and a frail-looking old woman took us inside. There was an open fire in the middle of the room. In the dim light, we sat on animal skins and drank water from a gourd.
A young woman sat with us. She had a handsome face and very long black hair. She tried to feed us gruel of cornmush, but we spat it up like babies. She and the old woman draped pungent skins over us and left.
Now we are alone. The hut is one room with a hole in the roof to let out smoke from the fire. Strips of corn, dried pumpkin, and clumps of roots and tobacco hang from the ceiling.
Thomas lies curled like a wounded animal.
I fear we face torture in the morning, Papa, like the burnt bodies on the river. I would try to escape, but Thomas is too weak to run with me. I will die before I forsake him.
At dawn the old Indian came to us. A young man was with him. He picked up Thomas and took him from me. We both screamed.
I tried to run after him, but the two women held me down. I fought desperately, for I could hear Thomas cry my name, the first words he has spoken in days. The sound was terrible to my ears, such that I fainted.
I felt hands stroking my face, and I opened my eyes. The thin, old woman was kneeling beside me, painting my face red. I begged her to bring Thomas back to me. The young woman — her daughter, I think — rubbed my arms with bear grease. I begged them both. But they do not understand me.
I tried to stand, but collapsed. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with red paint, like tears of blood.
They left me alone, but stand guard by the entrance while I suffer and anguish for Thomas.
The old woman and her daughter painted me again. They smeared bear grease into my hair and combed it smooth with a bristle brush. The daughter took off my torn shoes, tenderly washed my feet with water, then put soft moccasins on them. Her baby is nearby, tied to a straight, thin board. A fat, round-faced baby with black eyes.
Papa, I believe I have been adopted as the old woman’s second daughter. Yesterday, after I was painted, the two women removed my torn cloak and dress and put me in a fringed shirt and a deerskin skirt.
I pleaded for news of Thomas, but they behaved as if they did not hear. I kept asking for him, red tears falling. Twice more they had to paint me.
The old woman brought me a corncake. I stared at it, desiring never to eat again, only to sink into death. But then I thought, God wills me to live, in order that I might save Thomas. So I did try to swallow their food.
Next they pulled me to my feet, draped a robe of feathers over my shoulders, then led me into the cold, windy sunlight. We walked to a long-house covered with bark.
I hoped that Thomas would be inside the house, but he was not. Only many Indians crowded into a dark, smoky area.
They sat me before a group. All stared, a drum beating softly, to match the fearful beating of my heart.
Insanely I thought of Mother’s rules for Meeting and recited them like catechism.
A man spoke in Indian. The old woman came forward and gave a long speech. Her thin body shook with emotion as her reedy voice cried out in anguish.
She handed the man a necklace of white shells. He turned to me and spoke loudly, saying, “Chilili,” then handed me over to her.
She and her daughter tried to embrace me, as if I were now their kin. Though their touch was tender, I was as lifeless as a stone statue.
They sleep now while I write. The black-eyed baby stares curiously at me in the dim light.
Alone now, Papa. I have not yet seen Thomas. For three days I have sat in the old woman’s cold, smoky hut, dressed like an Indian, stinking of bear grease.
Whenever the old woman and her daughter call me “Chilili” and speak to me, I pretend not to hear. I only stare at the fire, trying to cling to my past life. But my mind is invaded by odors from the grease in my hair and the beaver pelts draped over my shoulders. A strange and savage dream has overtaken my life.
The two women stare at me as I write. But they do not seem to mind. Instead they appear curious and respectful. Perhaps they think my writing is some sort of magic.
Today I hauled wood. Trudged back and forth with a tall young Indian who has an eagle painted on his cheek. He cut dead tree limbs with his hatchet, and I picked them up and helped him carry them back to the hut.
I never spoke. Only trudged in perpetual, sorrowful silence. How many days have passed?
The fat Indian baby coos and laughs as his mother plays peekaboo with him. He never appears fretful like Baby Will. Forgive me, Papa, but I wonder bitterly why God dost make this savage child more healthy and happy than His own Christian baby.
Sometimes in the hush of night, I think I hear Thomas cry my name. But it is only the devil torturing me, Papa.
Went into the frozen marsh to check traps with three hunters, including the one with the eagle painted on his cheek. They thrust a freshly caught beaver carcass into my arms and I followed them, blood dripping onto the snow.
Scraped pelts with the old woman and her daughter while the daughter’s baby sleeps on his board. They try to befriend me, say “Chilili,” and smile, but I do not answer. Their tender treatment will not soften me. I will never be adopted by them.
The young woman holds her quiet, bright-eyed baby and stares at me in the dim firelight. No matter how cold I am toward her, she treats me with courtesy and calm. She wears buckskin decorated with shells and brightly colored porcupine quills. Her long, shiny hair is pulled back and tied with a piece of cloth. Her eyes are dark and warm. But I despise her, Papa. She let them take Thomas from me. I will not ever be kind to her. Forgive me, but I despise her red baby, too.
Thus far, none seem to care that I write. My spirit would fade completely if I could not write, Papa. I pray these words reach thee and Mother someday.
Helped hunters check traps again. We were silent, walking single file on the snowy, wet path. Then we all returned in the wind and heavy rain.
I slipped and fell. One tried to help me, but I pushed him away. I should die if any of them touch me. They are more animal to me than the bloody game I help carry. I pretend I am dead in their world.
Weary and faint-hearted. God give me strength until I find out for certain if Thomas is dead.
Hot with fever. Wet coldness has chilled me to bone — cannot get warm. Teeth chatter. Cough dreadfully—can no longer write.
Thomas is either dead or far away and I will not see him again. I know this. But I do not care. I do not care for anything. Though I live, I feel dead.
Why am I here? Why did they take Thomas? Why did God let us be captured? I prayed so hard for us all to be safe, Papa, and God didn’t hear.
Burned with fever all day. In and out of dreams, heard rattle shaking over me, and low, steady singing. Now I am alone. Cough worse.
Today the old woman and her daughter tortured me. They put me in a low bark house and poured water over hot stones. Steam blinded me as extreme sweat rolled off my skin.
I cannot explain why I feel better now. Their torture has strangely healed me.
Fever and sweating have thawed my heart. Now I feel it might burst from sorrow. I think of thee all, Papa — of Mother singing to Baby Will as she rocks him, of Eliza’s little fingers shucking corn. And of Thomas — Papa, I can hardly write of Thomas. He was a good, brave little boy. Why did God punish him so cruelly? I feel unceasing anguish and cannot stop my tears.
I hear flute music coming through the cold dark, and my memory flutters wildly. Papa, I see thee at dusk, near the woodpile. I see Mother sewing and Eliza laughing. I run with Thomas toward the schoolhouse as the bell clangs.
I am sighing for every detail of my old life, even arithmetic and the ache of sitting still in Meeting. All seems so sweet mingled with the flute music, while I am in exile from everything I know and love. It was better when I was frozen, Papa, when I felt nothing. I yearn to find my way back to thee. But I cannot make a plan of escape till I have knowledge of Thomas.
Storm rages outside. Wind howls. Many sit in our hut, telling stories and eating smoked fish. The baby waves his arms and cries out happily, making the women laugh. The hunter with the eagle painted on his cheek watches me as I write.
There. I just looked at him sternly, and he looked away.
At least they allow me to write. Indeed I believe they think my writing is something extraordinary. Each time I take out my copybook and quill, I see looks of approval pass from one to another.
Perhaps if they knew how bitterly I wrote about them, they would not be so pleased.
Now I must conserve my words, for my ink is low.
Last night I dreamt that I went for water. When breaking the ice, I saw a small boy floating in the air up the hill beyond the river, and I thought, Thomas? My God, is it Thomas?
I started shouting to him. But he disappeared over the hill, and I woke up, trembling. In the dark, the Indian baby whimpered. He so rarely cries, that for a moment, I felt a tenderness for him and longed to comfort him.
Dear God, bring Thomas back to me, and take us home to Baby Will. Dear God, give me courage. Make me strong. Help me to live.
Something strange happened to me today, Papa. Without warning, I began to say all my thoughts out loud. And many of them were most bitter. It happened when I was walking behind the hunter with the eagle painted on his cheek. I slipped and fell in the snow. After I scrambled back to my feet, my wrath poured out like fire. I told him that I was not a savage like him and the others! I told him that I despised them. I despise everything about him and his people. They are all heathens, with no God. They are all animals and are all going to the devil!
As strange as my behavior was, his behavior was stranger. He did not turn back even once to look at me, nor to command me to be silent. Indeed, I began to wonder if he had heard me at all.
Then, I wondered if I had even spoken. Was I only thinking these venomous thoughts?
I shouted in an angry voice, demanding to know if he had heard me speak.
But still he did not look back at me.
I fear I am going mad, Papa. Perhaps invisible, too. Worst of all, my ink is nearly gone.
What will I do, Papa? This is the last of my ink. Now for certain, I will totally disappear.
I can write again. I was so desperate for ink that I begged the whole camp to help me. But all looked at my empty jar with dumb bewilderment. In despair, I hurled it across the snow.
But when I rose at dawn, I found the jar at the entrance to our hut. It had been replenished with ink made from coal dust. And a new wild turkey quill was with it!
I lost all restraint again and I shouted at the camp, asking who had given me these writing tools. I held the jar and quill up to the old woman and her daughter and demanded to know. But the old woman only pressed her finger to her cheek.
Perhaps an angel delivered these gifts to me in the night, and I can call them a miracle.
Papa, why am I suddenly turned out of myself — shouting and exclaiming? Is it because I do not care any more what others think? This is a new and frightening thing.
I pray for the ability to hide again. But some great urge seems to be pushing me out of myself.
I talked behind the hunter’s back again today. On the path, as we were returning from a fox hunt, I told him about the miracle of my ink. I spoke loudly and clearly and explained that my God had sent ink to me. I told him how the Lord had once turned water into wine and fed five thousand with only two fishes and five loaves of bread.
I asked him what he thought of all that. And when he did not respond, I could not keep quiet my opinion that he was as dumb as an ox!
I know I am going a little mad, Papa. But ’tis curious that yelling in this manner has begun to make me cheerful.
I keep talking, Papa!
Now when the old woman and her daughter call me “Chilili” and speak to me in Indian, I answer them in English and say whatever I like. Today, when they spoke to me, I told them plainly and honestly that I do not care what they have to say, I have great grief in my heart and I have great anger. I told them I miss my family and demanded to know where Thomas is. I shouted that they must bring him back to me! “Only then — when that happens — will I be nice to thee!” I told them.
They watched patiently, then went about their work, praying, I imagine, that this wild spirit will leave me soon.
I declare it will not. I have found strange pleasure in my new freedom to speak my mind.
Tonight I attended a campfire ceremony. I stood alone watching young men and women move their feet to the pulse of the rattle and the eerie singing of the older women.
I would not join them. When the leader of the dance spoke to me in Indian, I was impudent, telling him that I had no desire to dance like a heathen. “Kill me if thee likes!” I said. “Burn me! Torture me! My spirit will go to God and I will find comfort and rest!”
He spoke calmly in Indian again, as if we were having a civil conversation.
Nearby the hunter with the eagle painted on his cheek danced. When I heard him laugh at me, I turned on him and spoke furiously, daring him to laugh again. I told him my words would make him wither if he understood them. Then I stalked away.
I can talk all I want. I can say anything I like, and no one tries to stop me. Today when small children gathered around, I berated them, saying, “Thee are nothing compared to Thomas, Eliza, and Baby Will! My brothers and sister are the most precious beings on Earth!” They stared dumbly.
“Thee are all so dreadfully stupid!” I shouted. Though they do not understand my tongue, they understood my rage, and when one tiny girl began to cry, I felt stricken.
I returned to my hut and wept.
Papa, thee always said the best help is in thyself. But if thyself is filled with darkness and inward suffering, where is the light then to sustain thee? I am made of so little strength and goodness that I cannot find help within.
Today I went again with the hunters to carry their game. Once more, I found myself on the narrow path, walking behind the hunter with the eagle painted on his cheek, and once more some mysterious force pried the secrets from my heart. I confessed to him that I felt peculiar hearing myself talk so much, for in my world, I had recently been afraid to talk at all.
I told him that at home, I have feared sounding too bold or too vain. But perhaps I am both these things, I explained. Bold and vain may be my true qualities, and I don’t know what to do about them. I fear I may someday be turned out from the Society of Friends. I may be an outcast and never find a husband or have a family.
I confessed all this to him and further grieved that my fears are ridiculous because most likely I will never see my home again, ever. I wept pitifully
as hot tears fell upon the dead fox I carried.
The hunter never turned around.
Had I spoken at all?
I have no idea what month or day it is. But it must be late winter, for the sap has begun to run. Today I trailed after the old woman’s daughter through the woods. Men drew the sap from trees into bark receptacles. Women boiled it by dropping in hot stones, then we poured some on the snow to eat.
Back at the hut, the old woman melted bear’s fat with the maple sugar and we dipped roasted venison into it, and our cornbread, too.
A good meal, not unlike a special supper cooked by Mother. I tried to scorn it, but I ate all I was given and wanted more.
Papa, how can I die of grief when I have so large an appetite? Why does life cling to a cruel world with such ferocity?
I dreamt again of Thomas last night. He was on the other side of the hill, beyond the frozen river. He was being tortured — beaten to death with sticks as he ran a gauntlet. I woke up in anguish.
All day I have wanted to slip away and look on the other side of the hill. But I will have to cross the frozen river first, and I do not know how solid the ice is. Perhaps I will test it when I fetch water in the morning.
Am I going mad, Papa, chasing after a dream?
At dawn, I went to the river for water. Rather than break the ice, I attempted to walk on it. I stepped carefully, until I heard a crack. Then I jumped back, just in time.
When I turned around, I saw the hunter standing nearby.
I shouted at him angrily, asking him why he spied on me. I told him that I had seen my brother in a dream, that the Indians were beating him to death.
He shook his head.
“Why dost thee say no?” I asked with wonder. “No what? Dost thee understand me?”
He looked long and hard into my eyes, then turned and left.
Dear America: Standing in the Light Page 3