Quetit fingers her braid. “Nonschetto. What happened to the Bad Twin? Did he die?”
“No, he did not die, for the Bad Twin creates evil and there is always evil in the world.”
“And that’s the end of the story?” Quetit asks, looking disappointed.
Nonschetto wraps her arms around Quetit and hugs her close. “No, Little One. It is the beginning. For the Good Twin needed someone to till the ground and make the corn grow strong. To stand by the man who hunts the deer, bear his children, and comfort him when the Bad Twin covers the sky with thunder clouds.”
“So the Good Twin created woman,” I say, finishing the story for Nonschetto, thinking of the comfort she has given me. Thinking of my mother ... and Woelfin. All the women who must bear sorrow.
Nonschetto’s answering smile touches me like the warm wind sighing through the trees. Now I understand why she chose this time to tell me about Kahonhes and the savage death he suffered.
Nonschetto’s story of the woman falling through the sky reminds me of one I read in the Bible. It was about Eve, the mother of all people. I still can picture the words. Adam and Eve. The Garden of Eden. The evil serpent. Abel and his wicked brother, Cain. Since time began, Nonschetto’s people, like my own, have had to explain why there is good and evil. Somehow, knowing this makes evil easier to bear. One day I must share Eve’s story with Nonschetto. I think that she would like it.
Nonschetto nuzzles the back of Quetit’s neck, where the skin is soft and pale. Quetit giggles. Gokhas croons as he pulls gently on my long black hair, then wraps his plump hand around my thumb. He closes his eyes. The sun glancing off his right cheek turns it into warm shades of copper.
Within the cool shade of the tall oak tree, we rest together now in a comfortable silence. Just the four of us and Tummaa. He is sleeping on his side—a plump gray puppy. He does not notice the butterfly hovering just above his nose. A fluttering of black and gold.
CHAPTER Thirteen
The month of falling leaves has passed. Now Lowanachen, the North Wind, ruffles the tails of the busy squirrels. It carries the cries of geese throughout the land. I cannot listen to the geese without remembering my white man’s home. Each spring and fall, the geese would fly through the sky above my cabin and I would run outside to watch and wonder where they flew. Twelve moons ago, the geese cried overhead when I stumbled over windfall and cut my feet on briars. The geese remind me of a long, sad journey and a home that I was forced to leave.
But I must not dwell in these sad thoughts, for now is the time of giving thanks for the bounty God has given us. Today, Indians from a nearby village come to share this bounty and dance in thanksgiving before their Lord, the Great Spirit.
I have already peeled the hickory nuts for the harvest feast. Now, with a mortar, I pound the kernels nesting in a gray stone bowl. As the kernels turn to powder, I add water to make a milky soup. The pottage I made earlier from dried corn and water steams in a kettle set over the fire. I wish these chores were finished. Everyone else seems to be getting ready for the celebration. I have no clothes to change into, but I’d like some time to grease my hair, tie it back with a strip of deerskin the way the other women do.
Men crouch in groups outside the sweat lodge preparing themselves for when the visitors arrive. I wince as I watch them intently pluck out hairs from each other’s faces with wire tweezers. Once their faces are smooth and hairless, they will paint them. I am relieved that I am not a man. I would hate to have whiskers plucked out from my face.
I do not see the women anywhere. Like Woelfin, they are probably inside their huts changing into fancy clothes. I feel ashamed of this old dress I must wear. It is dirty and it smells.
I take the milk I have made from the powdered nuts and water and add it to the pottage. The mixture smells rich and filling. Mother once made a pottage like this for our Thanksgiving feast. Christian helped her roast the goose. I remember the sweet taste of the apple dumplings my sister made.
I wish I were home, sharing Thanksgiving in the warm circle of my family, instead of here, dreaming of nice clothes while I do chores in old ones. I pray for my family as I stir—my mother, my sister, my two brothers and my father—three of them scattered like leaves in the wind, two of them gone. But prayers do not ease the hard knot I feel where my heart should be. Some days, it burns inside me like an open wound.
“Tskinnak. I will watch the pottage now.” Woelfin takes away my ladle and hands me a bowl. “Run quickly to Nonschetto. Ask her if I could have some vermillion, the red face paint.”
I walk slowly to Nonschetto’s hut, still lost in my sad thoughts. The wind brings the scent of roasting venison, the sounds of laughter. Tummaa scampers ahead of me. He attacks a pile of swirling leaves and barks at me, asking for attention. “Silly Tummaa. Come.” I pat my side and he prances over to me. Tail held high.
Soft giggles greet me when I enter Nonschetto’s hut. Heads turn—Woates, Flat Nose, Nonschetto and three other women. They are dressed in deerskin blouses and colored skirts of blanket cloth. Nonschetto wears silver brooches down the front of her blouse. Strings of little bells encircle her ankles. They make a tinkling sound as she approaches me. I have never seen her wear such finery.
“Tskinnak. Look at me!” Quetit dances out from the circle of women. Her eyelids and cheeks have been painted red. She wears a new blouse and a deep blue skirt.
“Where did you get the clothes?” I ask, wishing I had some too.
“Nonschetto gave them to me.”
“Tskinnak. Do not look so sad,” Nonschetto says.
“We have not forgotten you.” She leads me to the women and they remove my ragged deerskin sacque. Nonschetto hands me a deerskin blouse and bright red skirt. For a moment, I hesitate, remembering a plain homespun dress Mother once made for me. What would Mother think of these Indian clothes?
“I traded fox pelts to get the blanket cloth,” Nonschetto says. “Then I made the skirt in secret. So that I could surprise you.”
I throw my arms around Nonschetto then, all hesitation gone. “The clothes you made are beautiful,” I whisper.
Nonschetto rests her cheek against my hair and she hugs me back. The hard knot inside me loosens. Nonschetto, little Gokhas, Quetit and Tummaa are my family now. Tonight, when I say my prayers, I must give thanks for them.
I dress slowly, enjoying the feel of soft deerskin, the warm nap of the blanket cloth. Nonschetto is good to me. I must think of something to give her in return.
After I am dressed, Nonschetto paints my face. Flat Nose leans over her shoulder, giving her advice while Woates greases my hair, folds it back and ties it with a yellow ribbon. Quetit worms in between the women and stares at me. “You do not look like Tskinnak anymore,” she says.
“Tskinnak looks like a woman,” Nonschetto says with pride.
I am twelve winters old now. The top of my head reaches Nonschetto’s chin. Does that mean I am a woman now? I blush at the thought, for I feel like a girl.
“Look!” Woates says. She holds up a shiny piece of tin. “My husband, Gray Fox, bought this from a trader. You can see yourself in it!”
I stare at my reflection, made golden by the firelight. The redness of my painted cheeks and eyelids brings out the darkness of my eyes. My hair shines. Like folded blackbird’s wings, it frames my heart-shaped face. Now I understand what Quetit said. I do not look like myself at all. I look like an Indian woman. This both pleases and disturbs me.
Nonschetto’s gaily painted face smiles when I look up at her. And seeing the bright vermillion designs on her eyelids and her cheeks, I suddenly remember why Woelfin sent me here.
Tiger Claw comes out of our door flap as I hurry in with the vermillion Woelfin asked me to borrow from Nonschetto. Tiger Claw’s face is painted to look like an eagle’s. His forehead and neck are dead white. Dark paint outlines the ridges above his eyes. It shapes the yellow paint covering his nose and mouth into the cruel curve of a beak. His fierce eyes widen when he see
s me.
I brush past him, afraid of his strangeness, the admiring look I see in his eyes. As the door flap closes between us, I try to make light of his look. Perhaps it is one of surprise at seeing me dressed up this way.
Woelfin sits on her bed, arranging a cloak of goose feathers around her shoulders. For many moons, her stiff hands have worked this cloak. Three strings of colored wampum now hang from her neck. She looks regal in her finery. Like an elegant, but distant queen. For a moment, I sense the beauty she must have been when she was young.
As I hand her the vermillion, I hear the tinkling of ankle bells, the shouting of loud halloos outside. The visitors are arriving.
“You are late,” Woelfin says, her cold eyes staring into mine. “Quickly. Paint my face.” Woelfin remains silent as I dab paint on her eyelids and cheeks. She says nothing about the way I look or where I got my clothes. Her silence makes me feel as plain as stone.
When we finally go outside, the sun is setting in bands of pink and gold. The men are kindling a fire in the village clearing. People are everywhere, greeting each other like old friends.
“Tskinnak,” Woelfin says, gripping my arm. “You stay here and tend to the pottage. Do not let it burn.” Then she hurries off.
I stir the pottage cooking on the spit outside our hut and watch Woelfin’s feathered cloak move in and out among the people. I feel left out—all dressed up, but with no one to greet.
The visitors and the people of our village laugh and talk together as they enjoy the feast we have prepared. Their clothes, their painted faces, are like autumn leaves, coloring the village in cheerful reds, oranges, yellows and browns. Quetit races by me, chased by a gaggle of children I have never seen before. I am envious of Quetit. She makes friends so easily.
As night descends, Woelfin keeps me busy offering venison to the men and checking the pottage to make certain that it doesn’t burn. I don’t know why I’m wearing fancy clothes. This is just another day. At least sweet Tummaa stays beside me. My little watchdog.
Once everyone has eaten, the drum beats begin. The men join together, making a circle around the fire. Bells jingle as the women form a circle surrounding the men’s. I add kindling to the small fire burning beneath the pottage, begrudging the task. But when the dance is over, people will want more to eat.
“Tskinnak.” Nonschetto runs up to me, her ankle bells jingling. She takes my hand. “Come. Join us for the pipe-dance, the dance of friendship.”
“But the pottage,” I say, pulling back.
“Let the pottage cook itself! Come! The pipe-dance is fun and easy to learn. Just follow me.”
Reluctantly, I let her place me in the women’s circle. I feel shy and out of place between Nonschetto and the fat, dark-skinned woman who takes my other hand. The brass thimbles which decorate her skirt jingle as we slowly begin to dance. I watch Nonschetto’s feet, imitating the steps she taught me moons ago. We step forward and back, moving counterclockwise to the drumbeat. The men dance in a circle formed inside of ours. The steps are easy. I begin to relax and let the drumbeats guide my feet.
One man, whose face is painted like that of a pike fish, starts to chant. He springs forward, breaking the line of the inner circle. He turns around several times, drawing the line of men around him until he is enclosed by them. Everyone chants as he now untwirls the line, leading the men in a snakelike chain. Tiger Claw brings up the rear, his fierce eyes aglow. I feel him watching me as I dance past. I watch my feet, afraid that I might stumble.
The fat woman releases my hand. I find myself being pulled along behind Nonschetto. Bodies press against mine as the fat woman draws us all together in a warm close chain of friendship. Quetit passes in front of me, her face flushed and happy. I like this dance, too. It makes me feel a part of everyone and they, a part of me.
We dance round and round, twirling and untwirling in a colorful, endless chain. My feet move to the beat of drums and chanting voices. We circle the bonfire, its bright flames flickering against the sky. I feel a part of fire and light. This dance makes me feel a part of everything that moves. I could dance like this forever.
Amid the rhythmic sounds of drums and ankle bells, there sounds a sudden loud halloo. I glance behind me. A wiry, dark-haired white man leads a bay horse into the village clearing. He halloos again. The drum beats cease and the dancing stops. I feel myself drop, abruptly, into the sudden silence.
“It is Dupré, the Frenchman,” Nonschetto whispers.
“Why does he come now?” I ask, not wanting the happy dance to end.
“His custom is to join us in our harvest celebration.”
“Children!” The Frenchman holds up two rifles. “I bring you greetings from your fathers, the French. I bring you guns, powder and lead. Enough to kill the English army!”
This Frenchman should not speak of war. Not now. This is meant to be a time of friendship. The men talk excitedly among themselves as they surround him. Tummaa crowds against my skirt and Quetit grabs my hand. We join the women who stand a respectful distance from the men, but close enough to overhear what they have to say. Tiger Claw greets the Frenchman like an old friend, clasping his shoulders, smiling his welcome.
“I have not forgotten you, my brother,” Dupré says to Tiger Claw. He hands him the rifles.
So this is the trade Tiger Claw made with the Frenchman six moons ago. Furs for rifles to kill the English! But we need blanket cloth to keep us warm since Tiger Claw has sold off all his furs. We need hunting knives. The other day, Woelfin broke her blade while butchering a deer.
“Children. The French and Indian must allow no grass to grow upon the warpath leading to the English forts.” Dupré takes out flasks from his saddlebags and hands them to the men. “Let the spirit of rum make us joyful while we plan our war against the Yengee devils.”
I hate this Frenchman. It is a time for peace, for giving thanks, and he gives the men hard drink that will turn them mean. He continues to talk of war—saying that Chief Towigh’s warriors must join the French in battle. That the French and Indians are wiping the English off the face of the land. Suddenly, I find his narrow eyes staring into mine. Does he sense how much I hate him? I turn away, feeling the coldness of his stare on my unprotected back.
The harvest celebration goes on. But Dupré’s talk, the rum he has given to the men, turns them ugly. The dance of friendship becomes a dance of war. The women stand together in small, hushed groups watching the men leap in circles around the fire. Hidden within the shadows of the surrounding trees, I watch, too. Now the men drive tomahawks into a post that has been fixed into the ground and curse the Yengee devils. I don’t see Tiger Claw or Dupré anywhere. They probably went off together, plotting war.
Tummaa paws my skirt and whines. I lift him up and hug him, needing Tummaa’s reassurance as much as he needs mine. How could a dance of peace turn so quickly into one of hate? These people are driven by an anger I cannot understand. Their savage dancing frightens me.
I wish that I could stay here, my back protected by the trees, but I suddenly realize that I have forgotten all about the pottage. Woelfin will be angry if I let it burn. I slip through the trees to the spit I erected a few yards from our hut and find that the pottage has cooked to a thick hard crust. I search the crowds for Woelfin.
Now I see her in her feathered cape standing alongside the fat woman who danced with me. Their faces are turned toward the dancing warriors who pretend they are in battle. The firelight glitters off their sweat-streaked bodies as they threaten to beat and stab and cut each other with their tomahawks and knives.
My heart beating, I lug the heavy kettle into the forest. I scrape the pottage out and feel relieved once the remains are hidden in the leaves.
The howls of the angry warriors send shivers down my spine. Clouds cover the moon and a cold wind bites my skin. I hang the empty kettle back on the spit, then run to the hut to fetch my deerskin cloak. Tummaa pads along beside me, silent and subdued. Time was when I wished this n
ight would last forever. Now I wish that it would end.
CHAPTER Fourteen
Our hut smells of stale sweat. Even the sweet grass I hung from the rafters cannot mask the sour scent. The fire smolders, giving little light. Outside the drums still beat as the war dance goes on. I kneel beside my bed and feel beneath it for the basket in which I store my deerskin cloak.
Beside me, Tummaa growls. I reach out to calm him and feel the hackles rise along his back. Something is not right in here. The air feels thick with body heat. Someone moves in the shadows behind me.
“Tiger Claw!” I gasp when I see his face, not a man’s face, but an eagle’s, all beak and eyes. His dark-rimmed eyes stare into mine.
“I ... I came for my cloak,” I tell him as I quickly stand. I sense he has been drinking. His eyes are unfocused, as if he sees, but does not see. He is unsteady on his feet.
“Tskinnak.” Tiger Claw slurs my name. He throws his arm around my shoulders. I try to push him off, but he leans on me and traps me with his weight. His breath stinks of rum. Tummaa cowers beside me, whining.
“Dupré. Meet my white squaw,” Tiger Claw says.
“I am not your white squaw,” I say, searching frantically through the dark and smokey air for Dupré. I would hate to have him creep up on my back.
Dupré emerges from the shadowy comer near my bed. His face is narrow, like a ferret’s. His thin dark beard does not hide the smirk I see on his face. “So this is the squaw you captured last fall.” Dupré eyes me, up and down. “Your hunting was good.”
“Let me go.” I struggle against Tiger Claw, desperate to escape from these two men. They have been drinking in our hut. They must have been plotting war, sitting on my bed. I hate them. Hate. the touch of Tiger Claw’s bared chest against the new clothes Nonschetto made for me.
“This white squaw needs taming,” Dupré says.
“I am not a white squaw!” I say, hating the words “white squaw.” They demean me.
I Am Regina Page 9