I Am Regina

by Sally M. Keehn

  “She will not run away again,” I promise Shingask.

  He looks away from me, and Barbara begins to cry.

  Tiger Claw forces himself between Shingask and me. He holds his rifle up like a bar, forcing me backward into Marie. Five Indians with angry faces now corral our little group. They force us to move—three, four, five paces backward, until a large space filled with withered grass and brush separates us from Barbara. Mark and Johann, the two small boys, are crying. They cling to Jacob and he puts his arms around them.

  “She shouldn’t have tried to run away,” Mary Anne sobs, hiding within the circle of Marie’s pale arm.

  “She wasn’t running away! She was riding to Fort Schamockin. She wanted to alert the soldiers and bring them back here. She risked her life to save us! We must save her now. Somehow, we must save her.” I look from one face to another. No one will meet my gaze.

  Peter casts a warning glance at the Indians surrounding us. “Speak softly,” he says, keeping an eye on them. They are talking among themselves. “There’s nothing we can do,” Peter whispers. “There are too few of us. The Indians would kill us all.”

  “But ... but they are going to burn my sister.”

  The dark-skinned Indian called Suckachgook now piles twigs and pine boughs at Barbara’s feet. A rope binds my sister’s waist to the dead ash tree. Her hands are free. Her fingers pluck aimlessly at the rope binding her, as if she cannot believe its presence.

  Marie takes my hand and holds it tightly. Suckachgook pokes Barbara with a stick, as if she were an animal. I flinch, but Barbara doesn’t. Tears are streaming down her face as she stares at the ground. I need to see her eyes. Meet her gaze. Let her know, everything will be all right. Even though I know ... it won’t.

  An Indian with a gray blanket draped across his shoulder starts to chant. My sister is about to be burned alive. Why would he want to sing? Now the others join in, as if this were a celebration.

  Someone should stop this!

  Galasko offers Barbara a large, black book. The cover is torn and smudged, but I can tell it is a Bible.

  “He is preparing her to die,” Elizabeth says.

  Barbara looks at the Bible for a moment, then pushes it away.

  “Take the Bible, Barbara,” I whisper, thinking of all the times we read the Bible together as a family. Its words always gave us strength and the courage to go on. Barbara must not refuse them now.

  Galasko grabs Barbara by the hair and pulls her head back. “You read.”

  “I can’t read it.” Barbara sobs. “This Bible. It is French. I ... I read only German.”

  Galasko searches through the pile of loot the Indians took from our families. He finds another Bible. A German one.

  Barbara wipes her face on her sleeve. Her long white fingers tremble, fluttering like moth’s wings through the pages of the book. Now they stop, hovering over an open page. Still sobbing, Barbara begins to read aloud, “The Lord is my shepherd, I ... I shall not want.”

  It is the Twenty-third Psalm, Father’s favorite. He often read it to us, especially when we were sad and troubled. I can almost hear him now.

  “Thou ... preparest a table before me ... in the presence of mine enemies ...” Barbara sobs so hard she cannot speak.

  “Thou anointest my head with oil,” I say out loud. All around me the Indians chant. “My cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  Barbara closes the Bible as I finish the psalm for her. Shingask approaches her. He is not chanting like the others. He speaks to Barbara and she listens. She shakes her head. “No run,” she says.

  Galasko pulls his son away.

  Shingask’s hands gesture as he talks to his father.

  I turn to Peter Lick. “What is he saying?”

  Peter strokes his red beard, listening intently. “Shingask says he does not want the brown-haired girl to burn. That she has promised him she will not run away again. That he dreamt of her ... he dreamt that the brown-haired girl had become his wife.” Peter squeezes my arm gently. He knows what these words mean to me. I feel as if I am going to be sick.

  Galasko, laughing, pounds Shingask on the back.

  The other Indians are chanting louder now. Suckachgook waves a torch at my sister’s face then lights the brush piled at her feet. The fire begins to smolder. I can almost feel the heat. Barbara screams. Oh Lord, there must be something I can do.

  Galasko grabs Barbara’s chin. He forces her to look at him. “Shingask say he no want you die.”

  Tears stream down my sister’s face.

  “Shingask say you no run away.”

  “No ...” she gasps. “No run.”

  Galasko looks at Shingask then at Barbara. “You be brave, like nianque, the wild cat. Then I know you make good Indian. You stop cry, then my son, he let you live.” Galasko releases Barbara’s arm. He folds his arms and watches her, the way a cat would a chipmunk. But she does not stop crying.

  Smoke rises from the kindling piled at her feet. Moments later, a small, hungry flame starts licking at the twigs. A small branch next to Barbara’s left foot catches fire.

  If tears could quench this fire, my sister’s would. I want to grab her and shake her. I want to slap her face as Mother once did mine. I shout, “Barbara! Stop crying. If you stop, the Indians will let you live!”

  Small flames now leap and catch onto another, larger branch, only a foot away from the torn hem of Barbara’s homespun dress. Barbara struggles against the rope that binds her to the ash tree and cries as if she will never stop.

  Shingask talks to Galasko. He seems to be pleading with him. The other Indians chant. A branch near Barbara’s right foot catches fire. Soon flames will engulf her.

  It is then, in desperation, that I do the only thing that I can do. I sing for my sister. Although my throat is tight with fear, I sing out loud, willing my voice to drown out the awful chanting, the fire:A mighty fortress is our God,

  A bulwark never failing;

  One by one the other captives, who stood so helplessly before, join me in singing the battle hymn by Martin Luther. Do our words touch Barbara as they touch me? Our voices fill the clearing:Our helper He amid the flood

  Of mortal ills prevailing.

  The Indians surround us with their rifles. They aim them at us but we sing on:For still our ancient foe

  Doth seek to work us woe

  His craft and power are great,

  And, armed with cruel hate,

  On earth is not his equal.

  Suckachgook bends over the fire and picks up a burning branch. He threatens little Johann with it. The boy screams as he backs away. His shirt catches fire! Peter throws him to the ground, rolling him over and over until the flames are smothered. No one is singing now.

  The wide-winged shadow of a chicken hawk circles the clearing. Its darkness touches Barbara whose head is bowed.

  Has something died?

  Moments pass. Long moments filled with the hiss and crackle of a mounting fire. Barbara shudders. The flames are strong enough that if the wind were to gust, her skirt would catch fire. She takes a deep breath and lifts her head. Relief floods me when I meet my sister’s gaze. Her dark eyes are alive with feeling. “Untie me.” Her voice is full of tears, but she does not cry.

  Galasko gestures to Shingask. He unties my sister’s bonds and, clutching the Bible to her chest, she runs to me. She falls to her knees and I kneel beside her, so full of relief I cannot speak. Shingask stands over us, but we do not look at him. Together, Barbara and I, with nothing now but the Bible and the powerful memory of a song to sustain us, watch the dead ash tree catch fire, watch the flames lick upward to a darkening sky.

  CHAPTER Six

  A sparrow perches in the tree which shadows the ground where I lie. She fluffs her feathers against the cold north wind.

  I wish I were that sparrow. I have no feathers to warm me. The dress Mother made for me,
from linen and wool that she wove together on her loom, is in tatters from crawling through briars and windfall. Soon I will be naked.

  If I were that sparrow, I would fly over these endless hills to where our farm lies. I would nest in the oak tree which shelters our cabin.

  My mind plays tricks on me. I have no cabin. It is ashes now. I saw the Indians burn it down. Saw the oak tree burn. Oh, Father, Christian.

  I do not know where I am going. It must be somewhere west of the Allegheny Mountains. The paths we follow always lead toward the setting sun. My shoes are gone. My feet are raw. They bleed.

  It is morning. Tiger Claw grunts as he stretches and stands. From this bed I’ve made of fallen leaves, I watch my sparrow flit away. Perhaps she will join a flock of sparrows. They will fly together, feed on seeds. They will not be lonely, for they have each other.

  I have no one now save Tiger Claw and Sarah. I try to be brave for little Sarah who sleeps so soundly beside me, blanketed with my woolen shawl. For the past two days, I’ve told her that someday we will reach a home somewhere. A fire will warm us and kind people will clothe our bodies. They will tend to our cuts and feed us stew rich with meat and gravy. I have not told her this is but wishful thinking; that Tiger Claw has said nothing of a home or family. But we must be going somewhere. A journey cannot last forever.

  Barbara and Marie are gone. Peter Lick, Elizabeth, the others are gone. They parted from us two days ago at a fork in the Indian path. Peter told me I would be going to the Ohio region. He said the land there is gentle and rolling ; rich with game and broad green meadows. He told me not to be afraid. Perhaps I would be fortunate. Perhaps I would be given to an Indian family who would care for me, who would treat me as their own. It happens.

  Barbara and I cried at our parting. Barbara said, “We must be brave, Regina.” Those were her last words to me.

  I watched Galasko and Shingask lead the horse carrying my sister and Marie away. Barbara kept looking back. Strands of brown hair fell across her face. She smoothed them back with her long pale fingers so that she could see me. I kept repeating the words to the hymn we sang when the Indians tried to burn her—“a mighty fortress is our God.” But even these words, even Sarah’s warmth as she clung to me, could not fill my sudden emptiness. Barbara was all that remained of my home and family.

  I try to be brave now as Tiger Claw approaches me, but Father’s scalp hangs from his belt, a reminder of what Tiger Claw did, what he might do to me. There is always the crack of whiplash in his voice. I cringe as he comes near.

  He barks words at me. Although my body aches from sleeping on the ground, I quickly stand and back away from him—three steps, four.

  Tiger Claw unwraps the shawl from a sleepy Sarah and hands it to me. Reluctantly, I don my shawl that doubles as a harness. I feel the hard knots settle into the sores which fester on my collarbone and shoulders.

  Tiger Claw lifts Sarah up from the leafy bed. She rubs her eyes, slow in awakening, then stiffens, sits like a wooden doll in Tiger Claw’s arms while he carries her to me.

  My shoulders burn and my back aches, for I have carried Sarah for the past six days. I say to myself, please, do not make me carry Sarah today. I will die if I must carry her.

  Tiger Claw is about to place Sarah into the harness when, suddenly, I find I cannot help myself. I drop from beneath her and curl like a caterpillar.

  Sarah screams on the ground beside me while Tiger Claw beats my back and shoulders with a willow branch, over and over again. Piling pain on top of pain. I feel as if I were truly dying. Let this be the end. Dear God, I cannot go on.

  But I do. As if I were outside myself, I watch Tiger Claw fit a whimpering Sarah into my harness. Sarah clutches my neck, afraid. But I find I cannot calm her anymore. I have no strength. Burden in place, I follow Tiger Claw through a darkly wooded hollow and down the narrow Indian path that seems to know no end.

  These past two days, I have had nothing to eat but withered crabapples. I dream of Mother’s johnnycakes as I climb through windfall. The johnnycakes are warm with venison gravy. I am sinking my teeth into one when the thorns of a locust branch pierce my feet. I scream at the pain. I scream until I am numb. I scream until I cannot think.

  I am walking through the valley of the shadow of death. There is no food to eat save grubs and tree bark. There is no shelter. Blood surrounds me. It lies on the ground where my feet have trod. It stripes my back where Tiger Claw has beaten me. It fills my body but it does not keep me warm. I will never be warm again. There is frost in this wind. I feel as naked as the trees.

  I ford streams. I wade through marsh and swamps. I climb mountains. I am a pack horse. Sarah rides me. Tiger Claw whips me on. Day after day after day.

  CHAPTER Seven

  It must be November now. My eleventh birthday has passed and I have had no time to mark it. The cries of geese no longer fill the sky. Frost coats the ground and ice skims the wide and shallow stream we have been following southward through this wooded valley. I do not know how many days it’s been since I was separated from Barbara. Maybe nine or ten.

  I have seen no white people since I was parted from my sister. I have seen no towns or wagon paths. We are on the far side of the Allegheny Mountains. Giant sycamores, their trunks as thick as five large men, rise from rich bottomland. Vast herds of elk gather at the scattered salt licks. Yesterday, the south wind brought us rain. At home, the east wind brought it. This is a strange new land, a wilderness to me.

  My stomach aches with hunger. Nuts and corn flour have been our only food for Tiger Claw has not stopped to hunt. But early this morning, after we had forded a rushing river and come upon this stream, Tiger Claw tied Sarah and me to a white oak tree and left us for several hours. When he returned, Tiger Claw had a deer slung over his left shoulder.

  Now we grill the deer meat above a fire on a spit Tiger Claw has fashioned out of saplings. I warm my hands over the flames, impatient for the meat. Sarah plays beside me. She lines three stones up, one behind the other. She moves them, one at a time, through a maze of furrows she’s created in the dirt. I know why Sarah likes this game. The stones are hers. She controls them. Sarah decides which direction each will take, what its fate will be.

  Tiger Claw allows us only a small portion of cooked venison. Even though we don’t have salt to season the meat, I savor the rich wild taste. Five bites and my portion is gone.

  “Please, may I have more?” I ask, instantly regretting the white man’s words, for Tiger Claw raises his hand, threatening me.

  “No speak like white man! You are Indian now!” he says in his tongue, fixing me with dark, angry-looking eyes.

  I look away, glance at the whiteness of my hands, my feet. I am no Indian. I never will be. Indians are savages! They scalp fathers, steal their children....

  Sarah places a small gray stone into my white palm and then another, until I hold all three. She climbs into my lap.

  Sweet Sarah, trying to comfort me with gifts. I rest my cheek against her tangled hair, wishing she could talk. I need her to talk to me.

  Sarah feels so slight as she cuddles in my arms, no more than skin and bones. She needs food.

  Tiger Claw watches us, his teeth tearing into deer meat.

  Resigned, I put aside resentment, and I sign to him the way that he has taught me. “May we have more meat?”

  “Too much meat make you sick,” he says in his tongue. I speak and understand too many of his Indian words. I have no choice.

  But Tiger Claw cannot control my thoughts. Like Sarah’s stones, my white man’s thoughts belong to me. She crawls out of my arms. I hand her the stones and she resumes playing with them.

  Tiger Claw sits on his heels, poking the fire with a small forked branch. There is deer meat cooking on the spit, but he takes no more. Cold and hunger do not seem to bother Tiger Claw. The cat who scarred him must have given Tiger Claw unnatural power. He never seems to weaken or grow tired.

  Tiger Claw lifts his eyes and they me
et mine. There is an expression in them I have never seen before—a softening to their gaze. He says strange words to me. I shake my head, trying to tell him that I do not understand, hoping my ignorance will not provoke his anger.

  Impatiently, he walks his fingers along the ground, meaning travel. He points to the fire, then, in quick sharp movements, outlines in the dirt the shape of houses.

  He must be speaking of a village.

  Tiger Claw makes a fist. He strikes his chest, once, at the spot where his heart beats.

  Tiger Claw must be speaking of his home.

  “Soon?” I ask him, my voice trembling.

  “One night,” he replies, stretching as he stands.

  He cannot fathom what these words mean to me. At night, curled around Sarah with only the wind at my back, I have kept myself alive with visions of a warm cabin with a knothole in the floor. I have dreamt of a log barn filled with cattle and sweet smelling hay. I have pictured people unlike Tiger Claw—good, kind people who take Sarah and me into their arms, feed us, then wish us Godspeed as they set us free.

  We douse the fire and cover its ashes with wet leaves. I slip my arms through my woolen harness, the knots settling into calloused grooves. Tiger Claw lifts Sarah to my back. I feel the hard fist of her hand clenched around her stones. I pray silently in the white man’s tongue, “Lord, guide us safely to a home,” while we walk the Indian path following a stream.

  The next day, the sun shines weakly through a graying sky. In the afternoon, the wind picks up, bringing the scent of wood smoke. Tiger Claw halts. With his knife, he cuts down a sapling which grows along the path. In horror, I watch as he now removes my father’s scalp which he’s carried tucked in his belt and fixes it to one end of the sapling. He carries the gray-haired scalp dangling on the stick before him as if the scalp were a trophy.

  Sarah lies uncommonly still and silent on my back. She must sense my fear. What kind of people would welcome the sight of a white man’s scalp?