I Am Regina

by Sally M. Keehn

  In my mind, I picture this man of God. He is robed in white deerskin. He carries no guns to harm the Indians. The colors of sunrise surround his body and two morning doves perch upon his shoulders. He takes my hand and leads me toward the home whose warmth I’ve felt within my heart. And when we reach this home, the sun shines through the open door flap, setting aglow the figure of a woman who stands inside—my mother.

  While the sun shines, glistening off the dark wet branches of the trees, I tell Quetit of my vision.

  “Will the man of God take me with you?” she asks, the sunlight turning her hair to gold.

  “You are my sister. Where I go, you go,” I say. Quetit is almost seven winters old and has strong, sturdy legs. On this happy journey, I will not have to carry her.

  “And Tummaa, can he go, too?”

  Tummaa pricks his ears at the sound of his name and ambles over to Quetit. She pats our large gray dog and he wags his feathery tail.

  “Of course,” I say. “We go nowhere without Tummaa. He is our friend.”

  “And Stone Face? And Nunscheach? Can they go too?”

  “Their mothers are here and this village is their home. They would not want to leave it.”

  “But I would miss my friends.” Quetit stares at the ground.

  “I would miss them, too,” I say, realizing the truth in the words. The children are a part of me and they have brought me joy. Yet ... a longing tugs at my heart for something I used to know and love.

  Quetit looks up at me. “Tskinnak. What does this home look like?”

  I pause for a moment, trying to think how I can describe the feeling in my heart. “Home is always warm,” I say, “as if five fires burned within it. I believe it has as many rooms as there are huts within our village, for it does not feel small and cramped like Woelfin’s hut. Blankets colored in the shades of sunset must hang on the walls, for home feels rich with color.”

  Quetit slips her small hand into mine. “Tskinnak. If this is what your home is like, I want to go there, too. I hope the man of God comes soon.”

  And so we wait for this man to take us to the home and mother that I dream about. I do not forget Nonschetto and what she’s meant to me. But I have not felt a mother’s arms in many moons. I believe that Nonschetto would understand.

  Gradually, peace comes to our land. The men have time to hunt and fish and our bellies are full. The men trade furs with the English instead of the French and we have blankets to keep us warm. But it is an uneasy peace and I fear it cannot last. Too often the men complain that the English traders are too stingy with powder, bullets and guns. That they show no respect for the Indian and treat him like a dog.

  One day, in the first autumn of this peace, with the leaves on the sugar tree red with frost, Tiger Claw returns from trading with disturbing news.

  “The Yengee devils have betrayed us!” he tells Woelfin, the scar on his face turning white with anger. “They build a great fort at the river forks on the ruins of the French Fort Duquesne! They plan to house an army there! On land they promised to our people once the war with the French had ended!”

  Woelfin’s face pales, as if all the blood had been drained away. Quetit, Nunscheach and Stone Face, who have been playing the dice game with me in a patch of sunlight outside our hut, gaze wide-eyed at her and Tiger Claw.

  I think of white man’s guns, the bullets that killed Nonschetto. “You have said these river forks are a ten nights’ walk from our village,” I say, more to reassure myself and the little children than Tiger Claw or Woelfin. “No white man’s army will ever penetrate our wooded hills and valleys.”

  Woelfin turns to me, her eyes glittering with sunlight and anger. “You do not know the white man! No wilderness can stop him!” She pauses and I feel myself begin to wither beneath her gaze.

  Tiger Claw grunts. He ducks through the door flap, carrying an armload of furs into the hut. The wind blows, scattering golden leaves through the village clearing. Stone Face gathers the black and yellow painted bones we use as dice and drops them, one by one, into the leather pouch he carries. He rises to leave and Woelfin stops him. “Stay,” she says. “Listen to me.” She crouches beside the children, her glittering eyes moving from Stone Face, to Nunscheach, to Quetit, then to me.

  “Once, many winters ago,” she says in the tone of voice we use for telling stories, “our people lived by the great waters. We gathered shellfish from the large green sea—sweet-tasting oysters, mussels and clams. There were many kinds of fish to eat. The land was rich. The corn grew tall and the deer were fat. We never hungered.

  “But one day, the white man crossed the sea and beached his great canoe on our shores. He asked us for some land—no larger than the hide of the buck. He said that on this land he would build a fire to cook his food.

  “We gave him land no larger than a buck hide, then watched as he took the hide, soaked it in water and cut it into cords! He tied the cords together. The land the long cord encompassed stretched from the deep green sea to the gentle hills and valleys.

  “The white man repaid our kindness with trickery! But we kept our promise and let him keep the corded land. Sadly, we moved into the valleys where the sea breeze never blows. There we built our huts, planted corn and caught fish from the streams.

  “The white man came to us again. He said, ‘The land you gave us is too small. We choke on the smoke from the fires we kindle.’

  “We said, ‘We will give you more land on which to place your chair. There you will feel the warmth of fire but not its smoke.’

  “Once more, we watched as the white man now unraveled the cords that formed the seat of his chair. He tied these cords together, too, and the long cord extended from the valleys to the mountains. We had been tricked again!

  “We kept our promise. With sorrow in our hearts, we moved once more, across the mountains to these wooded valleys which are far from the sea breezes that we love. We built our huts, planted corn and fed the soil with fish heads.

  “Now the white man comes again, for already he is building forts on land he promised to the Indian! Children! I tell you, the white man’s cord will encircle our throats! He will tighten the cord with broken promises until we cannot breathe! Then, if we do not fight back ... we all will die.” Woelfin’s voice breaks as she says these words. Her eyes glitter now, not with anger, but with tears.

  Someone begins to cry. I do not know who, for my eyes are locked on Woelfin’s. For a moment, it’s as if we touch, she and I. I feel the anguish at the white man’s treachery that is reflected in her eyes. I feel her pain, and my heart aches.

  Woelfin turns back to the children who wait. Nunscheach is sobbing. Stone Face clutches his bag of painted bones. Quetit strokes Tummaa, who rests his head upon her lap.

  “Who can own the earth, the sky, the water?” Woelfin asks, waving her arm at the forest surrounding the village. “The Great Spirit has given them to us all! The Indian does not encompass the land with cords! He shares its goodness! The Indian does not rob the bee of all its honey! He does not kill for sport! But the white man does. And one day he will suffer for it.”

  Woelfin stands. She turns to leave us then, as if the sorrow that she feels is too great to speak of anymore. But her bowed back stiffens, straightens with pride as she enters her small log hut. I sense a grandeur in her. And I feel torn, for the first time, between two loyalties: one toward the Indian whom the white man has betrayed; the other, toward a dream.

  The months pass, filled with disturbing news. English forts are springing up all over Indian territory: one at the Great Carrying Place; one at the river falls; and one at the land where the great lakes meet. As the English cord around us tightens, I greet each dawn with Tummaa, hoping that this day the man of God will come. And when he doesn’t, I whisper the words to my mother’s song. Sometimes they give me hope and the courage to go on. Sometimes they make me ache with a sadness that even Tummaa, with his antics, cannot heal.

  And in the second autumn of this
troubled time, Gokhotit returns to us after being gone for two moons. A wife walks behind him. She seems small and shy when, with downcast eyes, she is introduced to everyone. But at night, when our village celebrates the marriage with food and dance, her dark eyes flash with a fierce joy and her feet move like wings around the bonfire. Gokhotit calls her Proud One. It is a fitting name and I am happy he has found her. Her fire complements Gokhotit’s sweet and gentle nature. Their marriage gives our village hope for future generations. There have been no babies here for many moons.

  I watch Proud One dance with Woates, Quetit, Flat Nose and Nunscheach. The threat of war seems far away as golden leaves carpet the earth and the full moon turns the girls and women into dancing shadows. The air smells of burning hickory. Tummaa shoves his nose into my dress, asking for attention. I rub my hand along his flanks, enjoying the soft feel of his fur.

  Beside me, Woelfin gossips with Mauwi, Chief Towigh’s wife. I do not listen to what they say until Mauwi’s shrewd dark eyes fasten onto mine. “Tskinnak,” she says, gesturing toward Proud One who is joining hands with Quetit. “You must be sixteen winters old. It is time you marry, too.”

  “Aaaii!” Woelfin says. “This girl should have married moons ago. We need another man to provide us with bear meat and soft fur. We need children by our fire.”

  I am surprised at her words, for Woelfin hasn’t talked of marriage for many moons. I thought she had forgotten it. But now I realize that having children in these troubled times would give her hope. “There are no single men here for me to marry,” I say lightly, belying the sense of dread I feel. I do not want to marry. It would make me feel beholden to a husband. I am not ready for that. I don’t know if I ever will be.

  “Clear Sky needs a wife,” Mauwi says.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I could never marry the husband of Nonschetto.”

  “And there is Tiger Claw,” Mauwi says.

  “Tskinnak will have nothing to do with my son,” Woelfin says. “He comes near her and she bares her teeth, like an angry dog.”

  As Woelfin speaks, Quetit dances over to me and grabs my hand. “Tskinnak. Come. Dance!”

  I join the other women, relieved at being rescued. Instinctively my feet move lightly across the ground in time to the drumbeat. Tiger Claw dances with the men who form the circle inside of ours. His body is lean and hard, as are his eyes when he glances at me. Has Chief Towigh spoken to him as Mauwi spoke to me? I stare boldly back at him. He knows that I will never marry him, in spite of any compassion I might feel for Woelfin. I will kill myself before I do. When Tiger Claw leaves the next morning on a hunting trip, I rejoice.

  In the days that follow the marriage celebration, Woelfin badgers me, saying, “It is time you took a husband. Tiger Claw needs a wife. This village needs babies.”

  “Gokhotit and Proud One will give you babies,” I say, refusing to meet her gaze.

  I dread Tiger Claw’s return. In the clearing, with Quetit and Tummaa by my side, I kneel and pray, “Dear Lord. I am poor in spirit. Give me courage. If it be thy will, find a wife for Tiger Claw. Let Woelfin find contentment in the babies they will have.”

  The Lord listens to my prayers. I know He does. One moon after Gokhotit’s marriage, Tiger Claw returns home with three deerskins and a wife! Oh how I rejoice when I meet her! She is from the Wolf Clan and Tiger Claw calls her No Thought. She is plump and soft, with small vacant eyes that are set too close together in her round face.

  No Thought has earned her name. She builds fires, then gives no thought to tending them. She fetches water, then forgets the reason why. Quetit and I help her with her chores. No Thought is sweet and docile. The right side of her head is scarred. A drunken warrior beat her with a club when she was but a child. When Woelfin scolds her, No Thought fingers this scar and stares at the ground. I feel sorry for her.

  I shield No Thought from Woelfin’s scolding as I wait patiently for the man of God. But he never comes. And now our men grow restless, complaining that the English continue to betray the terms of peace. They build their forts and cabins on the Indian’s hunting grounds and frighten all the game away. The cord that Woelfin spoke of is tightening around our throats.

  The dark clouds of war gather overhead. And in this angry breathless time, Tiger Claw sharpens his knife and tomahawk, while at night, a recurring dream haunts my sleep. The man of God is guiding me through a forest thick with briars toward a vision only he can see. We travel on and on and my legs grow weary. I finally slump on the ground while the man of God moves on without me. And lying on that cold wet ground, I dream a dream within a dream. I dream of my mother, holding out her arms.

  CHAPTER Eighteen

  Black flies circle overhead as Quetit and I boil deer brains in a kettle set above a blazing fire. When the brains are cooked, we will use the mixture for tanning hides. It is a hot and smelly job. We both hate it.

  Achgook gave Woelfin this deer two nights before he traveled north with our warriors. After four winters of an uneasy peace, they join an Ottawa Chief named Pontiac. He is uniting the tribes in this wilderness. Together they plan to attack the English forts near the place where the lakes meet and kill the unsuspecting Yengees.

  I wish that I could slip into the forest, where the air smells green. But Woelfin watches me, making certain that I finish this mean task. She punishes me by making me boil deer brains—a job saved for children who have misbehaved. Two nights ago, Achgook brought me this deer as a marriage gift and I refused it.

  Achgook is short and stout. Although he only came to live in our village two winters ago, I know him too well. He thinks only of himself. His first wife died in childbirth at the time the frogs begin to croak. As soon as Achgook buried her and the baby, he began to notice me. When I see Achgook’s thick, heavy hands, I am reminded of Tiger Claw and how his hands hurt me that dark night seven winters ago. I do not want to marry any man.

  But Woelfin accepted the deer Achgook brought in spite of my protests. She said, “Achgook. When you return from war, Tskinnak will build your fire and grease your joints with oil.”

  “I will not marry Achgook,” I told her later, stiffening myself to meet her gaze. “In my dreams, I walk through an endless forest and I walk alone.”

  Woelfin stared at me with eyes as hard as jasper. “This marriage has nothing to do with dreams. Achgook will hunt the deer for us. He will provide the fur we need. You will have children and their laughter will fill this empty village. This time, you must marry.”

  I add more deer brains to the pot and Quetit complains, making faces at me.

  “Do not look at the brains, just stir them,” I say, drying my skin with a handful of leaves.

  “Tskinnak. My belly feels sick and I am thirsty.” She hands me her ladle and slips away toward the stream. Knowing Quetit, her drink will be a long one. I cannot blame her. This is my punishment, not hers.

  I look around me—at this village where I have lived for eight winters. It feels empty with our warriors gone. Woates sings a low sad melody as she sits outside her hut, grinding corn in a wooden mortar. Her only son died last winter from the coughing sickness and now her husband Gray Fox walks the warpath. She looks lonely without him. In the time of peace, he rarely left her side.

  I am sick of boiling deer brains, sick of the thought of marriage and of war. In peace, I had discovered a measure of contentment sharing stories at the oak tree with the children. In peace, I could believe in dreams; imagine the warmth of my childhood home and a mother’s arms. But war leaves no time for dreaming. War means clubbing mice to fill empty bellies. It means tending warriors’ wounds and mourning those who’ve died. War is like a vulture, feeding on the dead. I don’t know what has happened to the man of God. Did he go to Assowajame?

  Two moons pass and the warriors return. Now Achgook struts through my garden as I try to hoe the corn. He boasts of victories against the English. Using his stubby fingers as counting sticks, he lists the forts the Indians have captured—Fo
rt Sandusky, Fort Venango, Fort Miamis, Fort Le Boeuf ... His loud boasting drives me away. Even Woelfin’s threats cannot make me go near him.

  Achgook and the warriors leave once more. This time for a place called Bushy Run. Two moons later, only five of them return-Achgook, Clear Sky, Gokhotit, Tiger Claw and Gray Fox. Achgook and Tiger Claw boast of the six Yengee devils they have killed. But Clear Sky tells us of a battle lost to a white man’s army led by a chief named Colonel Bouquet. Eight of our warriors died in battle, as did many of the Seneca and Shawnee who fought beside them.

  Our rivers run with blood, but the fighting does not cease. Our warriors join the Tuscarora. In small packs, they attack the cabins the white man raised on Indian hunting grounds along the Muskingum River. When cold cracks the trees, the warriors will return. Snow will fall. Food will be scarce. Our bellies will ache with hunger and Achgook will stand in our door flap offering gifts of deer and bear meat. How then, will I refuse him?

  Now, in the month of falling leaves, bucks with polished antlers and swollen necks search for does. At night, I hear them calling for their mates. At night, Tiger Claw, Clear Sky and Gokhotit return. They lead a white man’s horse into our village. Achgook’s body, along with Gray Fox’s, is draped across its back.

  I treated Achgook badly. I never let him near me. But I did not want the white man to shoot him. I did not want him to return like this, as cold as winter stone. I feel the weight of this stone, as if it hung from a cord around my neck—choking me.

  At daybreak, I help Woelfin prepare Achgook’s body for the burial. We dress him in soft deerskin leggings and a broadcloth shirt we found folded underneath his bed.

  “Achgook was a brave warrior.” Woelfin’s stiff hands shake as she places a string of beads around Achgook’s neck. “You should have married him.”