Under a Blackberry Moon

by Serena Miller

  The Hatchette baby, whose father insisted he be kept inside the cabin for fear that the fresh air flowing over the lake might harm the child’s lungs, was fretful and cried a great deal. Colonel Hatchette grew impatient with the ship’s progress, and Skypilot saw him in serious conversation with the captain several times. The captain did not appear to be enjoying the discussion.

  There wasn’t much in the way of civilization or other ships once they got past Sault Ste. Marie. Instead, there were long stretches along the shore of Lake Superior in which nothing could be seen but the densest of woodland. It was fascinating to him to see that so much true wilderness still existed here.

  The acres of trees around Bay City were gone. The white pine had been cut first, then the hardwood as Bay City grew and the inhabitants’ need for firewood increased. The lumber camps had to go deeper and deeper into the Saginaw Valley to find stands of white pine. As the lumber disappeared, there was more thievery as unscrupulous loggers cut into other owners’ property, and river pirates attempted to make a living off of logs secreted into small, secluded tributaries.

  In the Upper Peninsula, however, even in the year 1868, there was still true wilderness. He saw it all through the eyes of a timberman, evaluating board feet and admiring the straight, tall pines that crowded the shores as they passed. There would be several fortunes made here someday.

  Even though the word frequently used to describe Michigan’s forests was inexhaustible, he knew better. His guess was that this sight would someday disappear completely. He’d personally counted the rings on some of the trees he had cut down. Then he had done the math. Most of the trees they were harvesting had been mature at the time Columbus landed.

  There was enough of a skilled axe man inside of him that his hands fairly itched for the challenge to take down a few hundred of those trees. He longed for the smell of fresh pine as his axe bit into the tree’s flesh, and the shout of “timberrr” echoing through the forest. There was just enough of a poet in him, however, to value the fact that he was getting to see this before it disappeared—this never-ending sea of living green. He understood why some called this coast-to-coast wall of ancient trees inexhaustible, but he had seen firsthand how fast a small group of determined loggers could clear an acre of trees. If one multiplied what Robert Foster’s camp could do, by dozens of small, independent camps—that was a great deal of cleared land.

  As they steamed closer and closer to their destination, he found it interesting to see a change come over Moon Song. She held her head a little higher and prouder. He had always known her to have a deep sense of personal dignity, but that increased the farther north she got.

  “Steamboat stink,” she had announced on the second day of travel.

  “That’s true,” he said.

  “I will get off soon.”

  “Me too.”

  “No. You will go back. Remember?”

  “I might stay a few days.” He was teasing her. He had sensed she didn’t want him sticking around once she got to her own territory.

  “No need for you to stay.”

  “I don’t know, Moon Song. It’s awfully pretty up here. I might just settle down real close to you.”

  “Enough white people here already,” she huffed. “No room for Indians.”

  He grinned. “Looks like there’s plenty of room to me.”

  “You not yet see Keweenaw.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “People dig, dig, dig. All the time.”

  For a minute, he was puzzled. What kind of people was she talking about? Then he realized that she was referring to the copper and iron mines. He had heard that there were many people trying to wrest fortunes out of the rich mineral deposits in upper Michigan.

  Although he was only teasing her, it did bother him a little to see her so dismissive about the fact that they would soon be separating from one another for good. She seemed to be pulling away from the friendship they had enjoyed in the lumber camp. Instead of the eager student who had soaked up everything he had been teaching Katie’s younger brother and Robert’s two children, she was becoming more and more distracted and withdrawn.

  It had been over a year since she had seen her beloved North country. Unconsciously, she stood a little straighter and breathed a little deeper. Because of all she had been through these past few months, she knew she was stronger and smarter than she had been before. Wintering in the lumber camp had given her several gifts. She had learned English. She had learned many new ways of cooking food. She had made a lasting friendship with Katie, Robert, Sarah, and Skypilot.

  Tomorrow evening they would be docking at the tip of her beloved Keweenaw Peninsula at Copper Harbor. From there they would sail to Ontonagon near the range of mountains named after the porcupine. Soon, she would be among her people again. It had not pleased her when her husband insisted on traveling so far south, but he had felt the need to see new places. She did not.

  Their marriage had not been a success. He had inherited a regrettable taste for alcohol that had forced her to be as watchful of him as a hawk. This frequently made him furious with her for thwarting his purchase of liquor. He did not lash out with his fists, like so many husbands, but he did lash out with his tongue. She feared that as his desire for strong drink increased, it would come to blows between them.

  After two years of marriage, the only time they truly got along was when he was too far away from civilization to get his hands on the liquid he craved. That was why she had agreed to travel so far with him when she was so far along in her pregnancy. Giving birth alone in the wilderness was far preferable to living with an angry drunk man.

  He had been a handsome man, strong and brave when she married him, but it had not taken long to discover his great weakness.

  Discovering that his disappearance had been caused by his death had brought a strange combination of grief and relief to her heart. She tried not to spend too much time thinking about it. Mainly, she just wanted to get back to her grandmother’s tribe. Her grandmother was a wise woman and would help her figure out the warring emotions of her heart.

  After all she’d been through, all she wanted was a chance to sleep in her grandmother’s wigwam again, a chance to tell Fallen Arrow the stories that she had been saving up to share with her. With all her heart, she looked forward to the familiar scents and sounds of her small village. Most of all, she looked forward to enjoying the fluency of her own language once again.

  She was coming home with a little money and a few presents, intending never to leave again. Robert had told her she could have a job helping Katie in the kitchen next fall if she wanted to come back, but she would not go back to the southern peninsula of Michigan. It was too crowded, and the air smelled too much of wounded and bleeding pine trees.

  She sniffed the clean, pure air of the lake the whites called Superior.

  It was time to become Moon Song again—the real Moon Song—not the one who had tried briefly and unsuccessfully to fit into Bay City.

  She went back to her cabin and laid the cradle board gently on the bunk. It was time to feed and change Ayasha. She untied and unwrapped the leather outer layer and exposed her naked boy baby to the air. He smiled and kicked, happy to be free of the tight bindings. She scooped the soiled moss from around him, lying it on a newspaper to be disposed of later. Then she poured water from the pitcher into the basin, which was exactly like the one Katie had used in her cabin. With a piece of soft flannel, she bathed her baby as he kicked his feet and babbled. She supposed other women had loved their babies as much as she loved hers, but it was hard to imagine any mother loving her child more.

  Ayasha was her heart, her breath, and apart from her own longing to see her people, he was one of the main reasons she was making this trip.

  It was the right of the elders of her village to give him the name that he would carry into adulthood. Of all the good reasons to go back, obtaining a name for her son was at the top. She could hardly wait to hear what they would choose. He was a handsome, heal
thy child, with bright eyes, glowing fat cheeks, and a belly laugh that made her laugh aloud with him.

  As she rinsed the cloth out in the basin, she wondered what kind of man her son would be. She wanted Ayasha to grow up to be a great brave among her people.

  She began to sing softly in her native tongue as she cleansed him. Her heart was so full of love for this child that mere talking words were not enough, and so she made up words and a simple melody with which to soothe her baby. “For your journey. For baby’s long journey. Your mother will sing songs to you.” She lifted him into her arms and nuzzled his neck. “Your mother will gather sweet Juneberries for you. For your journey. For baby’s long journey. She will gather Juneberries from the hills behind Grandmother’s lodge.”

  She wrapped the material of her skirt around his naked body for warmth and nursed him, humming, until he fell asleep, satiated and content in her arms.

  With Ayasha asleep, clean, and content, she rinsed out the basin and poured the rest of the water into it. Then she locked the door to her stateroom and, using another soft cloth and sweet-smelling soap Delia had given her a few days ago, she stripped and washed herself thoroughly. She wanted to be completely clean when she slipped into Delia’s thoughtful gift.

  After washing, she sat cross-legged on her bed and combed the tangles out of her hair. It was thick and heavy and it took a long time each day to work the wooden comb through it until she had a sleek, dark mass that she divided and plaited into two thick braids that fell over her shoulders.

  Finally, at last, she could do the thing she had dreamed of since Delia had marched up the ramp with that light-colored bundle. She pulled the soft doeskin dress over her head and let it slip down over her body. It had sleeves that came to her wrists, and she put the dress up to her nose and breathed in the rich scent of well-cured deer leather. Yes, that was the way clothing should smell.

  The hemline was deeply fringed and felt soft against her knees. From the particular kind of expert design work of the carefully dyed quills to the carefully sewn seams, she could see that whoever had made it had done beautiful work. Since it was spring and still cool, leather leggings had been provided. She pulled the leggings on and then laced her moccasin boots up.

  This felt right. She had almost forgotten how much she enjoyed the freedom of movement her simple clothes gave her. The dress was soft and pliable enough to allow her to move freely, and yet strong enough to withstand briars and branches she might have to walk through to get to her tribe.

  With all her heart, she blessed Delia for having the compassion and foresight to purchase this for her.

  Slinging Ayasha’s cradle board onto her back, she left her stateroom, truly feeling like herself for the first time since her journey began.

  It was very late, and most people were in their cabins asleep. Skypilot was taking advantage of the abandoned deck by taking a quiet stroll while praying for clarity about the Lord’s will for his future. Then he saw Moon Song walking toward him, illuminated by the full moonlight, and he lost all thought of the future.

  This was not the girl he knew, working around the camp, wearing one of the high-necked flannel nightgowns she had appropriated from Katie in lieu of a dress. Nor was she the Indian girl he’d known back in Bay City. This was someone else entirely—and the sight of her nearly brought him to his knees.

  The dress Delia had made for her fit her perfectly. Loose enough to look comfortable, form-fitting enough to allow a man to know she was a woman. The nearly white, pristine doeskin was a perfect and simple contrast to her tanned skin. The bead and quill work was more beautiful on her than the costliest jewelry.

  She stood tall and straight, her eyes shining with pride and happiness.

  “You look . . . beautiful.”

  The word beautiful felt woefully inadequate, but it was the best he had.

  “Delia know I need real clothes,” Moon Song said.

  Real clothes. He wondered what Moon Song thought the dresses and skirts she’d worn before had been. Obviously not “real.” After seeing her like this, he tended to agree.

  “The ship will stop soon,” she said. “I will go see my people. You go back to Bay City.”

  He was not an egotistical man, but it bothered him that her voice rose as though hoping he would soon be gone from her life.

  “I promised Robert I would see you safely all the way to your people.”

  “There is no room for you in Grandmother’s lodge.”

  “I wasn’t expecting there to be.” Actually, that was exactly what he had been expecting. He had assumed that if he kept Moon Song safe by accompanying her back to her people, he would be welcome.

  But what was all this talk about a grandmother? Where was her mother? Or her father, for that matter? Suddenly, he wished he’d asked her more about her life. Instead, he’d entertained her with stories about his own.

  He should have been more curious. The only Indians he knew besides Moon Song were the men who came out of the woods every spring, hired, because of their great agility and balance, to ride and herd the logs down the rivers and streams.

  Moon Song looked at something over his shoulder and then she turned on her heel and strode away without another word.

  He realized the reason why the moment he heard Colonel Hatchette’s voice directly beside him.

  “It appears that your Indian woman is all dressed and ready to go back to her people.”

  He stiffened. “She is.”

  “That one is quite a looker.” Colonel Hatchette stared after her.

  Skypilot remained silent and hoped Hatchette took the hint. He had no intention of discussing Moon Song with this man.

  Hatchette suddenly pointed. “We’re passing Painted Rocks.”

  “Painted Rocks?”

  “Look at those cliffs. I’ve been told that minerals leach from the rocks and give them various colors. It looks a little like paint in daylight.”

  As they steamed past, the full moon illuminated mile after mile of the most amazing rock formations he’d ever seen. He could see only the shadows of the colored striations, but some of the minerals glittered in the moonlight that was reflected in the water. It was eerie and magical, and for the first time in his life, he wished he was a painter so that he could capture this scene and show it to Robert and Katie back home.

  He noticed that farther down the deck, that was exactly what Isabella appeared to be doing as she stood at the railing, scribbling furiously on a large pad of paper. She’d glance up at the rocks and then back down at the paper or canvas or whatever it was she was using.

  “It looks like your wife is using her talent to capture the view.” Skypilot nodded toward Isabella standing there wearing a wine-colored dress that was so dark it nearly blended into the night.

  The three of them were the only ones on deck at the moment, unless Moon Song was still wandering about. He couldn’t help but think how much the other passengers were missing by being asleep. The captain would be watching, of course, but he had probably seen it all many times before.

  “Doesn’t my wife look lovely in the moonlight?” the colonel said.

  “She is a handsome woman.” Skypilot was careful with his answer. This was thin ice. Too much enthusiasm about another man’s wife could be considered fighting words, and too little admiration could be considered an insult when the man was so obviously besotted with her. That was the colonel’s one saving grace that he had seen so far. He was a man in love with his wife. Then Hatchette opened his mouth and ruined what modicum of respect Skypilot had for him.

  “I kept an Indian woman when I was here before.”

  Skypilot’s stomach roiled. Even though he had once been a minister and had heard his share of intimate, sinful confessions, he most definitely did not want to hear this man’s.

  Then he realized this was not a confession. It was a boast.

  “She thought we were married.” Hatchette chuckled. “I even have a couple of half-breed children running around
Copper Harbor somewhere. Maybe three.”

  Skypilot was appalled. Compared to this oily snake, the rough-and-tumble shanty boys he worked with looked like chivalrous knights.

  “And you feel no remorse?”

  The easy conversational tone with which Hatchette had been addressing him disappeared, and a belligerence entered his voice. “Where are you from?”

  “Virginia.”

  “I thought I heard some Southern in your talk.” Hatchette gave a contemptuous snort. “Are you telling me there’s no part-white children running around those plantations?”

  “There are, but none of them are mine. When I do father a child, I have every intention of sticking around and raising it.”

  “You really are an ignorant fellow, aren’t you,” the colonel said. “Indian women like having white men. They think it gives them prestige.”

  “How does your former ‘wife’ manage to feed your children?”

  The colonel shrugged. “She’s probably taken up with some other white man by now. That’s what they do, you know. That Indian girl you’re so fond of? She’ll do the same thing when you’re finished with her. Find another white man to keep her in beads and geegaws. These primitive women don’t have any good Christian morals—unless some missionary gets hold of them—and then it’s barely skin-deep.”

  Skypilot had experienced similar callousness in some plantation owners in the past. It was why he had put his livelihood on the line by preaching against slavery in Richmond, Virginia. Now, as he looked into this man’s face, he wondered that there was no outward sign, no indication of the rottenness in this man’s soul. No, Hatchette’s face was smooth and untroubled. Even handsome, perhaps, if one did not know him.

  Skypilot had never been under the misconception that he was a sinless man. He had always tried hard not to judge the weaknesses of others. But to be this blatant and careless about another human being? To boast of having abandoned a woman and one’s own children? He automatically stepped away from the man. He didn’t even want to consider himself from the same species as Hatchette.