“Thomas is being tortured!” I screamed.
Then I thought I heard him speak — in English words. I thought I heard him say, “No. He is not.”
But his back was to me, and the wind was blowing. So perhaps I did not hear a thing.
Now I sit alone, in the dark, listening to the wind. It seems to mock me. “No. He is not”—can the wind sound like it is speaking English words?
Not truly.
But it must have been the wind.
Another dream of Thomas on the other side of the hill. He was chasing our pig Curly with a stick. I yelled at him to stop … then Curly changed into a monstrous bear and turned on us both.
Why do I keep dreaming about the hill? I am desperate now to climb it.
But first I must cross the river.
Later, when all are asleep, I will go in the dark and find a path where the ice is solid.
The moon is almost round tonight.
Last night my plan was crossed by a sudden storm. Snow whirled, and clouds covered the moon. I could not see at all, thus did not venture onto the ice.
Today dawns bright with the sun shining on the snow like a million pieces of broken glass. Perhaps the river ice has become more solid, and tonight it will support my footfall.
Papa, it has grown dark. But the moon is bright outside. It is the perfect night for my journey over the hill to search for Thomas.
If I am drowned in the icy river, or slain by my captors, forgive my vanities. I have been half out of my mind and consumed by anguish.
The old woman, her daughter, and baby grandson sleep now. I must hurry into the starry moonlight. Remember, I love thee and Mother with all my heart. Caty.
The Bible says after the winds and earthquake and fire, there was a still, small voice. I heard it last night, Papa. Only it was not God’s. Or mine.
In the moonlight, I found the river covered with new snow. Seized with the desire to find out if Thomas was on the other side of the hill, I started across the ice.
Soon it began to crack. But locked in the grip of my will, I could not turn back. I kept going.
Then came a giant crack. Both my legs crashed through the ice, and I plunged down into the icy water.
I grabbed a broken shard. Clinging desperately, I heard “Chilili!”
In the moonlight, I saw an Indian standing on the riverbank, holding out a branch. In English, he commanded, “Take it!”
I grabbed the branch. The rough bark cut my hands as I gripped tightly and pulled myself onto stronger ice. Then I leapt to the bank and fell onto the snow.
When the Indian helped me up, I saw he was the hunter with the eagle painted on his cheek.
I shook all over — whether from relief of being saved, or simply from the cold, I know not. Through chattering teeth I asked, “How dost thee know English?”
“I was English once,” he said in a whispery, halting voice. “Now Lenape.”
Then he turned and walked away, and I was left still trembling.
My hand is steady now as I write close to the fire while the others sleep. A thought strikes me. Many days ago, when I asked who had replenished my ink, the old woman touched her cheek. Was she referring to the hunter with the eagle painted on his cheek? Did she mean that he had refilled my jar?
I watch the fire smoke waft up through the hole in the ceiling into the silent night sky. I am filled with confusion, Papa, and wonder.
I did not see the hunter all day. I would think I had dreamt our meeting if it were not for the raw, red spots on my hands from clinging to the branch he held out to me.
I am anxious to see him again. Surely he can help me gain news of Thomas.
Where is the hunter?
All this rainy day I worked with the women as we made moccasins in the longhouse, and I did not lay eyes upon him. I looked around the camp whenever I had the excuse to fetch water or wood. But he is nowhere to be seen.
I cringe to think that the hunter understood all the wrathful words I spoke these past weeks, and I marvel he did not scorn me. Rather, he saved me from icy death. I feel chastened and humbled.
High winds today. River water rushing from the spring rains. Again I did not see the hunter. The more time passes, the more distressed I become.
The hunter is back!
Late this afternoon, he and two others returned with the carcass of a huge black bear. I hurried to the bear dance in front of the longhouse, desperate to speak with him.
The hunter danced hard to the drumbeat — shouting and leaping and stamping. He seemed so Indian in the firelight, I could not believe that he was once English.
He never looked my way. Not once.
Perhaps he plans not to speak my language again. Perhaps he will deny that he ever spoke to me at all.
Now that a door has been slightly opened and light has streamed in, I will die if it is slammed shut, and I am left in complete darkness again.
Today I worked with the old woman and her daughter, cutting out fat parts of the bear. We boiled them down until the grease rose to the surface. Then we skimmed the fat with a wooden spoon and put it into a skin bag. Several times they tried to engage me, but I refused to look them in the eye. I cannot be close to them, not until I know Thomas’s fate.
I finally escaped our task and hurried into the woods to look for the hunter, but to no avail.
With a heavy heart, I returned to our hut. The old woman stared at me with a faint smile and said something to her daughter, pointing to her cheek. Then together, they laughed. How did she know that the hunter is the source of my distraction?
If she thinks my feelings for him are affection, she is horribly wrong. In truth, I am growing to despise him for playing tricks on me.
Early morning. I dreamt of Thomas again last night. Though he was very tiny, as small as Baby Will, he spoke in clear sentences: Caty, I miss thee.
Then a giant eagle came over the sky and the shadow of its wings hid Thomas and I could see him no more. I woke up, weeping. I will find the hunter today or burst from my anguish.
This afternoon I found the hunter in the woods with boys, stripping sheets of bark off the trees. I watched him as I collected kindling.
When he started back to the camp alone, I rushed forward. I did not exert patience but demanded that he talk to me. “Thee must stop torturing me!” I said.
He stared back with an impenetrable gaze, then started walking again.
I grabbed his arm and said, “Please, I humbly crave thy help to find Thomas. Thomas came to me in a dream and was covered by the shadow of an eagle!”
He made no response but broke free of my grasp and went on his way.
Now I sit in our hut at dusk. The old woman gives roots and herbs to a visitor outside. Her daughter pounds corn. The baby coos. But I feel separated from all that is human and loving. Alone in an ocean of darkness.
Dear God, I am grateful for the wonder of Thy ways. It has taken a heathen to remind me of the Psalms: “Protect us, O Lord, under the shadow of Thy wing.”
A short time ago, as I lay awake with a bitter heart, I heard a clicking sound, as if someone were signaling outside.
I wrapped a fur robe around me and crept to the door. A figure stood in the cold dark. He whispered, “Chilili.” It was the hunter.
I slipped outside to join him.
He spoke with great solemnity, saying, “Do not fear the eagle in your dream. It can be your brother’s guardian.”
“Is Thomas alive?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
I burst into tears and wanted to throw my arms around him. But I restrained myself, and instead asked through my tears if he was the one who had replenished my ink. He smiled, then slipped away as quietly as he had come.
Now I terribly regret that I asked a trif ling question about my ink and wasted a precious chance to find out about more important things! Where is Thomas? Is he well? When will I see him again? Why were we captured? When will we return home?
It must be spr
ing now, Papa. I saw a ladybug on a dead leaf and caught sight of a baby deer when I was searching the woods for the hunter.
I finally found him and other men peeling bark from trees again to restore their huts. As I gathered nuts, I waited for a chance to talk with him.
When he was working alone, I moved closer to him. “Tell me, please,” I begged. “Where is my brother?”
Without stopping his work or even gazing at me he said, “He lives with Black Snake, in another camp.”
“Will thee take me to see him? Please?” I said. He remained silent.
“Can thee tell me,” I asked him, “why we were taken? When will we be returned to our family?”
In halting, crude English, he said we were captured because of the massacre of the Indians in Lancaster. We were given to the old woman and to Black Snake because both had lost children to measles.
Then, Papa, he gave me the worst news: We will be kept forever. “This is what the Great Spirit wants,” he said.
“How dost thee know what the Great Spirit wants?” I begged.
He did not answer at once, and before I could rail against the Great Spirit, a young boy shouted for the hunter, and he started over to him.
“Just tell me one thing!” I cried out. “How is Thomas? Is he well?”
He turned and said simply, “He is growing in Indian ways.”
I’m certain it is near the end of Third Month now. I saw rabbits today, and fresh anthills in the dirt. I hear tree frogs and spied a pair of geese on the river.
Today when I took my bucket to the water, I watched the hunter in the distance. He was fishing, as sudden warm weather has melted much of the ice.
Before he spied me, I tried to imagine him in britches and a white shirt, in riding boots, with a hat, but I could not. He seems completely Indian in all his ways.
He pulled up his line and began walking away.
I ran after him. “Wait,” I called. “Please tell me, when was thee English?”
He shook his head as if I should not pry.
“Dost thee not miss thy people?” I asked.
He stared at me coldly. “The Lenape are my people,” he said.
I fear I could not hold my tongue. I asked how he could turn against his fellow creatures and give himself over to being a savage.
I was not prepared for the torrent of angry words that spilled from him. “I scorn you because you do not think of the Lenape as fellow creatures,” he said in a low, angry voice. “You do not know the names of the women who care for you. You do not try to learn our ways because you say we are animals. Like all the Christians, you lie. You preach love while all the time you think you are better than all people.”
I was stunned by his wrath, but before I could defend myself, he walked away.
I shouted at his back, “I cannot lovingly regard thy people until I see my brother again!”
I wanted to say more, but he was too far away to hear me.
The hunter’s angry words have stolen my wrath. I am not so inclined now to batter the Indians with my insults.
Papa, I remember words thee often said during family worship, words uttered by one of the first Quaker Friends: “Our life is love and peace and tenderness; and being one with another, and forgiving one another, praying one for another, and helping one another up with a tender hand.”
A thought has come to me: Though he did not admit to it, I am certain it was the hunter who replenished my ink — forgiving me when I was daily cursing him.
And did he not help me up with a tender hand when I nearly drowned?
I fear I cannot rise to the level of his kindness, Papa, nor to thine. My fear and concern for Thomas have killed the goodness in me. I fear the love in my heart is too measured and miserly.
So, if I am not a good Quaker, Papa, what am I?
I approached the hunter today with true humility. I used a friendly Indian greeting. I put my hand up and said, “Hah.” From the old woman and her daughter, I have learned that this greeting seems to mean something akin to “Good be with you.”
I smiled at him, perhaps my first smile since I was captured. And my heart grew lighter as he smiled back.
“Will thee take me to see Thomas?” I asked as humbly as I could.
He just stared at me.
“Soon?” I asked hopefully. “When Black Snake says to come,” he said, and went on his way.
It must be Fourth Month now. Bees have returned, and tufted titmice sing in the woods. Trout lilies are in bloom. Today the old woman gathered fresh bloodroot and cowslip. All I can think is: Who is Black Snake? Where does he live? Is he kind to Thomas?
Today I humbly approached the hunter again. I could see him eye me warily, as if expecting me to beg once more to be taken to Thomas.
I surprised him: “What is the name of the old woman?” I asked.
His dark eyes brightened. His answer sounded like “Wapa-go-kos.”
I have heard people say that name. “What does it mean?” I asked.
“White Owl.”
I smiled. My regard for the old woman grew slightly, for a white owl is a beautiful creature.
He went on to tell me that the old woman’s daughter’s name is Tan-ka-wun, which means “Little Cloud.” I like that name, too. The poetry of it somewhat warms my feelings for the longhaired girl.
It seems that her baby has no official name yet, but they call him Little One, which sounds like “Penk-won-wi.”
When I asked the hunter for the meaning of his name, he told me his Lenape name, Wine-lo-wich, means “Snow Hunter.”
A lovely name, I thought.
But, Papa, thee will be surprised to learn that mine is even more lovely. Chilili means “Snow Bird” in Lenape. He told me that it was the name of White Owl’s younger daughter who died of measles, a disease brought to the forest by the white traders. I am White Owl’s new younger daughter, he explained. And Little Cloud’s new sister.
A wave of sorrow passed through me. Both for myself and for White Owl and Little Cloud. I can never be their daughter or new sister.
“Perhaps thee can call me by my Indian name,” I told Snow Hunter. “But say it in English. And I will call thee Snow Hunter.”
He agreed on this plan.
As he walked away from me, I called after him. “Snow Hunter! Will thee take me to see my brother soon? I miss him, like Little Cloud misses her sister.”
At first I thought he was ignoring me. But then he looked back and gave me a quick nod and went on his way.
Praise God!
A warm and lovely day. For certain now it is Fourth Month. Mayapples are back, but not yet blooming.
In the twilight, White Owl returned from collecting plants, then very carefully shook the dirt from them.
She is a mystery, coming and going into the spring forest at odd hours, bringing back plants and bark, then boiling them down.
Everyone in the camp treats her with respect, and often someone asks for one of her potions.
As I watched her, she caught my eye, and I smiled, partly because I felt sorry for the loss of her younger daughter, Chilili.
White Owl nodded and smiled back. Then she returned to her plants, sparing me from too much attention.
Now that I know the meaning of her name, she seems more real to me, and less a “savage” stranger.
Tonight while White Owl and Little Cloud were baking corncakes, they talked softly and laughed together. As I listened to them, their gentle speech and laughter reminded me of Mother and me making supper together at home. I felt such sorrow I had to walk away.
The long-awaited happened today.
This morning, the sunlit river flowed rapidly, completely free of ice. As I drew water, Snow Hunter came upon me, silent as a deer. He asked if I wanted to see where my brother lived.
I nodded with wonder, afraid even to speak, for fear he might withdraw such a gift.
“Come,” he said. And he headed down a trail that led along the river. I quickly followed,
and soon we came to a narrow bend with large rocks, a place where we could easily cross.
When we got to the other side, we climbed the hill, the very hill I have seen in my dream! At the top, he pointed to a distant gathering of huts. Smoke rose from their chimney holes into the blue sky.
“Your brother lives there with Black Snake,” Snow Hunter told me.
Tears came to my eyes and I started to run, but he quickly caught me and held me gently.
“We cannot go now. Later Black Snake will invite us, after your brother learns Indian ways.” He spoke with such kindness, I could not feel anger, but only impatience.
I let out a sigh and stared at the distant camp.
“'Tis amazing,” I said. “My dreams told me that Thomas lived on that side of the hill.”
“The Great Spirit sent the dreams to you,” Snow Hunter said simply.
He explained to me that the Great Spirit is king of all things on Earth. It is the sunrise, the sunset, the darkness, the rain and wind and snow. It creates all human beings by its thoughts.
I told him that one could say the Quakers are of a similar mind, for Quakers believe that all things have a bit of God in them.
He nodded.
Then in the gray twilight, he said it was time to go home, and we left. ‘Twas strange, but I nearly took his hand as we walked down the hill together. I am beginning to feel a great trust in him.
When we reached the other side of the river, it was almost night. Before I knew it, he had quietly disappeared … into the darkness of the Great Spirit. And I made my way back to my hut alone.
We must be midway into Fourth Month, or well into spring. It rained all last night. But at dawn, the sky was rose-colored; the air was clean and cool.
When I went for water, I felt so exuberant that I slipped over the river rocks and climbed the hill.
A great flock of geese sailed through the sky, returning home from the south. Mist hovered over the sunlit fields.
I could barely see the camp. But I heard children shouting. Was Thomas among them? Was he running through the mist?
I longed to run down into the valley and race through the wet fields, arms outstretched, screaming, Thomas, Thomas!
Dear America: Standing in the Light Page 4