But I kept my feelings still. If I anger Black Snake, it might mean harm to Thomas.
White Owl and Little Cloud often laugh with one another. They laugh at themselves, at their cooking, and at Little One. Did Chilili, their true daughter and sister, laugh with them? Sometimes I feel as if I am her ghost, watching them from afar, unable to break into their circle. I simply cannot understand their words or their ways.
Thinking these things, I feel sad, and do not know if it is for Chilili or myself.
Today the men and boys burned a number of trees, then cut them down. After they cleared the brush, the women raked the dirt into small mounds. This section of the village will be our garden.
The smell of the woodsmoke brought a new wave of homesickness over me, so I left the others and wandered down to the river. As I sat on a rock, Snow Hunter found me.
He told me he was sorry that the Great Spirit had caused his people to tear me from my family.
“It is not fair to blame everything on the Great Spirit,” I told him. “It does not allow one to argue. It’s like when Papa says that God does not want us to go to Philadelphia.”
I imagine he did not understand me, but he sat quietly with me and seemed melancholy.
Papa, the truth is that I no longer despise Snow Hunter, White Owl, or the rest of their people. Our capture no longer seems their fault. It seems the result, rather, of great forces beyond all our power … a war between our Gods, not our small human selves.
I dreamt again of Thomas. He was not running with Indian children in the fields. He was deathly ill, lying on animal skins, in the delirium of a fever.
When I woke, I ran to Snow Hunter’s hut. I called to him, and when he came out, I told him my dream.
He listened with great seriousness, then said decisively, “We will go to see Black Snake.”
I hurried after him, joyful, yet apprehensive that we were about to risk Black Snake’s anger.
We headed for the river, crossed the rocks, and climbed the hill. When we reached the top, the sun was so bright it blinded us.
As we started down the slope toward Black Snake’s camp, I trembled with anticipation. Children ran to greet us. Men and women came forward to stare. They talked and pointed at me. Snow Hunter spoke to a woman, and she led us to a hut.
When we stepped into the dimly lit room, I saw Black Snake, the old Indian who had taken Thomas from me. He stood with a man who wore a wolfskin headdress and shook a rattle over a small body lying on a bearskin.
It was Thomas.
Before anyone could stop me, I rushed forward with a cry and knelt beside him. His eyes were closed, and his skin so pale it seemed he had already left this world.
But his tender face made my heart break open, and I wept and stroked his damp, hot cheek.
Many Indians gathered around and watched silently as I whispered to him. I said prayers and stroked his thin arms, until finally God opened Thomas’s lovely eyes.
He stared at me with a dazed expression, and I told him that I was with him, and that he need not be afraid.
Light came into his eyes then, and he smiled.
I was allowed to stay with Thomas all day and night. I lay beside him and never stopped touching him or speaking gently to him. I reminded him about our past lives … Papa, Mother, Eliza, Baby Will … even Curly the pig, our chickens, and the rules Mother enforces in Meetings. I talked about how I had been afraid to divide the long numbers and how it was really nothing to be afraid of. I even tried to explain how it works. Then over and over, I told him I would not leave him, never, not ever; I would always be with him.
At sunrise, he sat up and asked for food.
Snow Hunter spoke a long time with Black Snake and the man in the wolfskin. Then he came to me and said he had told them about my dreams, and they agreed that the Great Spirit wanted Thomas to be with me.
Papa, in that moment, I could see it was truth they strived for, not victory.
Blinded by my tears, I thanked Black Snake. Then we wrapped Thomas in a deerskin cape. Snow Hunter picked him up and carried him out of the camp, over the rise, across the river rocks, and all the way home to White Owl’s hut.
Thomas was pale and quiet when Snow Hunter finally laid him down. But White Owl gave him one of her medicines, and he opened his eyes.
Now I must lie down, too, while she sits with him, chanting softly. I am so weary, I almost imagine that her tender voice belongs to Mother. I am grateful to Black Snake. I forgive him everything.
White Owl and Little Cloud gave Thomas a sweat bath today. The same they gave me long ago—when I thought they were torturing me.
This time, I did not fear them, but helped them instead. We put Thomas in the bark structure and steamed him until great amounts of sweat poured from his small body.
They made him drink a tonic. Then we lowered him into the cold river water, swaddled him in cloth, lay him close to the fire, and gave him sassafras tea.
This treatment has been good for him. He sits up now in the hut and, with big eyes, stares at all of us. I watch him with a grateful, humble heart.
Thomas is even better today. Color glows in his cheeks — and best of all, Papa—that mischievous look in his eyes has returned!
White Owl’s medicine continues to work wonders on Thomas. Today, like a little duck he followed me when I washed our bowls near the river and when I carried wood and water. He even tried to help me pound the corn into flour. As we worked, he said, “Caty, is thee mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at thee, Thomas?” I asked.
“Because thee told me to run. And I did not run fast enough.”
Looking away from him, I blinked hard to hide my tears. “No, Thomas,” I said, “thee did exactly as God wanted thee to do.”
Papa, thy boy continues to improve. He has a ravenous appetite. He still follows me everywhere, but he seems more like his old self. He even speaks Lenape words to White Owl! This morning, she smiled and shook her head after he spoke to her.
“What did thee ask her?” I asked him.
“If she had a horse for me to ride.”
“A horse! Dost thee ride horses now?” I said.
It seems that Black Snake’s oldest sons have taught Thomas to ride. And when I asked him if he did well, he told me he was the best rider in their camp!
Dost that not sound like our Thomas, Papa?
White Owl, Little Cloud, and I planted corn in the mounds of the garden. At nightfall, Snow Hunter stopped by our hut and spoke privately to Thomas.
Soon Thomas came running to me and, with shining eyes, told me that Snow Hunter wants him to camp with another boy in the guardhouse next to the garden. “To scare away the deer during the night!” he said.
Forgive me, Papa, if Thomas is turning into a small warrior. But it is so pleasing to have him well, I cannot refuse him. Or Snow Hunter, for that matter.
Thomas and I took care of Little One this afternoon when his mother and White Owl went to gather herbs. The baby’s diapers are made of rabbit skin and lined with fresh cattail fluff. When we changed them, we washed the rabbit skin in the river, and replaced the soiled cattails with fresh ones.
White Owl has made a small hole in one of Little One’s moccasins. The hole is meant to keep spirits from taking him away.
When I explained the hole to Thomas, I added that I wished we could do the same for Baby Will.
“For whom?” Thomas said.
Fear struck me. “Baby Will! Thy brother! Dost thee not remember?” I nearly shouted.
He did not answer. He simply said, “Oh,” and looked away. I could not tell if he had no interest in the matter or if he suffers too much confusion to talk about it.
Today Snow Hunter came to see Thomas again. His affection for Thomas made me wonder if Thomas does not remind him of himself long ago. “Was thee the age of Thomas when thee began to live with the Lenape?” I asked him.
He gave the briefest nod, but enough to prompt me to inquire further.
“What was thy name?” I asked.
“John,” he answered simply.
“Where was thy farm?” I asked.
“I do not remember,” he said, and from the stern way he spoke, I knew he had just ended the conversation.
Ten years from now, will Thomas also say, I do not remember?
Today Snow Hunter brought Thomas a whistle made from bird bone. When Thomas received the gift, he said, “Wanishi.” He told me that Black Snake had taught him to say this — it means he is thankful.
Thomas tells me that wishi means “good” and wulelemil means “wonderful.” He has learned a number of Lenape words.
Snow Hunter invited Thomas to help him and the other boys and men plant their tobacco today.
Thomas, for his part, looks upon Snow Hunter with awe and admiration. Perhaps that is because Snow Hunter carried him in his arms all the way here.
After they left for their work, I helped White Owl repair our moccasins.
Today Snow Hunter gave Thomas a hunting lesson. White Owl, Little Cloud, and I stood by and watched as he put on a deerskin cape that had the head of the deer attached. Wearing this “garment,” Snow Hunter showed Thomas how to approach the deer — toe first, head down.
Then he put the cape on Thomas. But it was so huge, it completely hid Thomas’s small body. To watch Thomas move on his tiptoes in a jerky fashion was so amusing that White Owl, Little Cloud, and I collapsed in laughter.
Am I standing inside their circle now, Papa? Am I growing a little more like Chilili every day?
Early morning.
I watch White Owl in the sunlight outside the entrance to our hut. Her bony arms move vigorously as she pulls bark from redbud branches and ties it into bundles. Over time she will give all the bundles to different women who come to our hut.
In the yellow haze of the early light, she reminds me a bit of Mother. She works from early morning until late at night, always stretching out her hand to help others.
Now that I have begun to see White Owl as a real person, not unlike Mother, equal to me or thee, a pure truth has opened up in me, Papa: If White Owl is truly an equal person, then how can white people bear the weight of our sin — the sin of our attacks against the Indians and the stealing of their land?
A warm day. Early morning Thomas and I went with White Owl and Little Cloud into the woods and helped them gather wild plants and bark.
We did not take the first plant we saw. Instead White Owl placed tobacco beside it and spoke words as if she were praying.
Later Snow Hunter explained that White Owl was praying to the spirit of the plant, thanking it for its help. And whenever she peels bark from a tree, she first prays to the spirit of the tree.
Snow Hunter calls these spirits manetu. They are in all of nature.
Today again Thomas and I went with White Owl and Little Cloud and watched them dig up a number of plants. Then we helped them peel bark from walnut trees.
On the way back, I tripped and fell, twisting my ankle.
Little Cloud helped me up, and, as I had trouble walking, she bid me to lean against her and we stumbled together, laughing.
Our laughter increased our strength and was as much a medicine as the wild roots we had gathered.
Tonight White Owl applied black walnut sap to my inf lamed ankle. Then Thomas and I listened to White Owl tell a story, and though I did not understand what she said, I was comforted by the steady, soothing rhythm of her speech.
It must be the middle of Fifth Month now, Papa, for the dogwood are in bloom.
Snow Hunter, Thomas, and I saw three owls in the twilight. Owl is kookhoos in Lenape. The number one is kwut-tee, two is neesh-shah, three is nah-xah.
Oh, and rabbit is moushkiingwaus. We saw neesh-shah moushkiingwaus in the twilight, too.
Papa, sometimes I fear that if we learn Indian ways, it will take us deeper into our new world and further away from thee and Mother. Every day, I try to tell Thomas about our old life. But he seems to fear my words. He moves away from me and restlessly begins some other activity. I am afraid to force him to listen, Papa. I wish I knew what thee would want me to do.
Today the women planted beans next to the corn, so the bean vines will cling to the cornstalks. We planted squash between the mounds of corn plants, so that its huge leaves will shade the ground and keep down the weeds. Now all “the three sisters,” as the Lenape call them, have been planted—corn, beans, and squash.
Until new food is harvested, we will keep eating dried meat and fish and nuts, stored in a pit lined with rocks and covered with bark.
For dinner, White Owl and Little Cloud boil the dried meat in water until it swells and becomes soft enough to eat.
Often we have the meat with corncakes. Thomas and I help crush the dried corn. It seems that all day long someone is pounding corn. We sift it through a pawenikan, a flat basket sieve. Then we mix the flour with hot water, mold it into cakes, and bake the cakes in hot ashes.
It tastes good, though I long for Mother’s apple pie and pumpkin pudding.
Hot day, rainy night. Snow Hunter brought his adopted father to visit our hut. His name is Pethakaluns, which means “Thunder Arrow.” Snow Hunter urged Thunder Arrow to tell a story.
Thunder Arrow lit his pipe with a coal from the fire. When he began to talk, Snow Hunter interpreted his story for Thomas and me.
Long ago a turtle, takwax, was lying in a great body of water. The water was the whole universe.
Slowly takwax raised his back. When the water ran off him, his dry shell became the earth.
In the middle of this dry earth grew a tree. The first man sprouted from the tree’s foot. Then the first woman grew from the tip of the tree when it bent over and touched the ground.
Thus was the beginning of the world.
I asked Snow Hunter if he believed that the world really began this way.
He answered me simply, saying that different peoples have different dreams. This is the dream of his people, so he dreams it also.
I imagine it is the end of Fifth Month now, or the beginning of Sixth.
Another rainy evening. Snow Hunter visited, and we helped White Owl prepare plants for a special medicine. She urged us to remove the dirt as carefully as possible from the roots of the plant. Then she showed Thomas how to stir the brew.
Snow Hunter explained that it must be stirred in the direction that the sun travels. Then he told me that White Owl was giving the medicine to a man whose illness was caused by witchcraft.
Thomas asked who the witch was.
Snow Hunter said that no one knows for sure. But the victim’s pain is the pain caused by a witch’s curse.
I have never entertained belief in witches. But now that I live in this world, it seems something to reflect upon.
I have never believed that trees and plants have spirits, or that one should stir medicine in the direction the sun travels.
I consider all these customs now. I know they are not the truth as we know it, Papa.
But here is another truth: When thee lives close to a different people, it is hard not to dream what they dream.
Today we prepared for a celebration in the Big House.
Little Cloud and I worked on our deerskin garments. I sewed shell beads onto mine. Little Cloud embroidered a beautiful pattern on hers with porcupine quills dyed different colors.
Tonight all gathered in the Big House.
Two fires burned, filling the air with the scent of red cedar wood. The wind blew through the end doors, making shadows dance on the wooden walls.
A man wearing a bearskin appeared in the firelight. He wore a mask and carried a turtle-shell rattle and a stick.
The children were frightened. Thomas clutched my hand as the bear-man sacrificed tobacco and meat in the fire.
But when the bear-man led the group in dancing and singing, Thomas became enraptured. I did not want him to join in, for I know Quakers must never dance or sing in public, but I could not stop him
, Papa. He joined the others and moved his little body as if he were all Indian.
I must confess, Papa, that my own eyes closed, my body swayed in the firelight, and I felt a strange, deep joy. Was this sinful, Papa? Or was it a visitation of the Holy Spirit?
I know we Quakers were given our name because we were mocked for quaking and trembling under the power of God. Is this dancing so different?
Papa, I had a dream of thee last night. Thee was at Meeting with Mother, Eliza, and Baby Will, and thee was grieving for me and Thomas. I woke up in tears, and I have felt thy presence all day. Please, Papa, do not grieve. I can stand my own tears, but thine are too much for me to bear.
The days are very long now, and all the trees are in full leaf and the wild roses are in bloom. Winter is fading even from memory. Is the farmland coming alive with the golden warmth, too, Papa? Bees and butterflies winging about? Baby Will walking? Are there new baby pigs?
Warm, lovely night. I write by candlelight as Thomas sleeps on our bed of deerskins.
Snow Hunter and other young men are having a ceremony to prepare to go hunting tomorrow. I hear their drumming coming from in front of the longhouse. Women cannot attend the ceremony. But I can see Snow Hunter in my mind, dancing in the firelight. Forgive me, Papa, but I think of him often.
Dear Papa, I remember last year when the piglets were born. Thee, Thomas, and I stayed up all night to help Curly give birth. Remember how she finally snored while they drank her milk, and we laughed so hard, we cried. Then Mother gave us sweet cornbread and thee thanked God for the gift of the little pigs.
It is good we didn’t know of our impending separation that happy night, Papa. Our hearts could not have borne the thought. But please know now that Thomas and I are well, and mysteriously, sometimes we feel quite content.
Today two young boys came to our hut to play with Thomas. They are Running Deer and Little Bear.
White Owl served dried venison and smoked fish and corncakes. Then the boys played a sort of dice game with flat buttons made of bone. They counted their points with beans, but they kept scattering them, ruining their numbers.
Dear America: Standing in the Light Page 5