Under a Blackberry Moon

by Serena Miller

  “Moon Song not a child.”

  “No, ma’am.” He glanced back at her, and that glance made her feel warm inside. “You are most definitely not a child.”

  Hour after hour, they paddled, fueled only by that morning’s fish broth and desperation. By early afternoon, he was hungrier than he had ever been in his life. Moon Song, however, never complained. Even the baby did not cry. Finally, they stopped at a small spit where there was some sand upon which they could pull the canoe.

  That was when he discovered he could not get out of the canoe. Usually, the only time he ever knelt was in prayer. Spending so much time kneeling in the canoe had left his legs numb. Moon Song was already out of the boat, of course.

  It was a little hard not to resent that fact. Everything she did seemed to be so effortless, even carrying the child with her everywhere.

  “Get out,” she said.

  “I’m not sure I can. I’ve tried. My legs have gone to sleep. I can’t get them to move. The only way I’m going to get out of this canoe is if I fall overboard.”

  She gave the canoe a yank to one side, and he did exactly that, fell out into the water. It was sudden, and the water was shocking, but he decided it really was the only way. It would take a much bigger man than himself to lift him out of the position he was in.

  Now he wasn’t just hungry, he was hungry and wet. It seemed like he’d been hungry and wet forever.

  He hoped Moon Song had planned for them to eat, but the only thing she seemed to have on her mind was nursing and changing the baby. He waited, hopeful. She’d made things to eat practically materialize out of thin air before.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  “No time to hunt or fish. You walk around. Drink water. We leave soon.”

  He did exactly as she instructed. He walked and got plenty of blood back into his legs. He drank water, and he ignored his hunger, or tried to. It was hard. He had seldom been truly hungry in his life unless he was waiting on a meal that was late. But there was no meal coming. No time in the future that he could depend on that there even would be food. Hunger would simply have to be ignored, indefinitely, while they paddled to Marquette.

  By the grace of God, there were no storms, heavy winds, or catastrophes. Just mile after mile after mile of blue sky, blue lake, and eventually, groaning muscles. After discovering that his legs had become paralyzed from kneeling for so long, they stopped approximately every hour so that he could stretch for a few minutes. Moon Song took the opportunity to feed Ayasha and allow him to toddle about and get a bit of exercise.

  The sun sparkled off the water like diamonds, shining in his eyes, nearly blinding him. He coped by perpetually squinting, watching through his eyelashes, trying to save his eyes from the constant onslaught of sun.

  During one of their stops, Moon Song dug around in the bank of a little rivulet that emptied into the lake, and there she found some sticky mud, which she smeared all over his face and neck.

  “There. That better?”

  The coolness of the mud upon his already burning face felt wonderful—until it began to dry. Then it just itched. Moon Song ignored her own skin but shielded the baby by rigging a small canopy of balsam boughs.

  He was sick of seeing nothing but trees and lakeshore. Years ago, in Richmond, he’d sometimes longed to be someplace where all he had was God’s beautiful handiwork all around him. Sometimes he had even fantasized about living at the edge of a lake in someplace wild, just him, the Lord, and nature.

  This fantasy had been fueled partially by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “Hiawatha,” which had become immensely popular ten years earlier. Longfellow had touted the beauty of the Michigan North country and wrote a poem about a lovely Indian maiden, and primeval forests, and sparkling big seawater.

  He was in the heart of what Longfellow had called Gitche Gumee, and he had his very own Indian princess paddling along behind him. All right, so she wasn’t exactly a princess, but she was Chippewa and she was beautiful.

  Unfortunately, his particular Indian “princess” had spent the biggest part of the past few days telling him what to do in order to survive.

  He scratched his sunburned nose. It wasn’t quite the idyll that Longfellow had described.

  Longfellow hadn’t mentioned mosquitoes or no-see-ums. He didn’t talk about what hunger felt like when the lining of your stomach rubbed together. Living in the lumber camp looked like the lap of luxury in comparison to what he was presently going through.

  He had thought he was roughing it when he went north and got a job as a lumberman. He had thought sleeping in a sawdust-filled bunk was rough. He’d even felt a little sorry for himself when the axe had blistered his hands and he had to buy itchy, leather-lined wool gloves until his hands got calluses. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of those gloves now!

  His hands had grown tender during the weeks of relative inactivity. Now, he had to paddle, no matter what. He pulled his shirtsleeves down far enough to cushion the paddle and endured.

  The first sign of civilization came around nightfall. At first there were a couple of unoccupied fishing shacks, obviously built by white men. Then there was a pier and many houses way out in front of them.

  After being a castaway for so many days and under such trying circumstances, he had almost begun to doubt the fact that such a thing as a town existed. Marquette, with its stores, houses, and churches, seemed unreal, like a mirage when it began to appear.

  He glanced back to see if Moon Song was as excited and relieved as he was at this oasis of civilization ahead of them.

  All he saw was a stalwart woman, rowing in an unbroken rhythm. No person he had ever known, male or female, had one-tenth of Moon Song’s grit. She’d done everything he’d done, and she’d done it while carrying a baby on her back.

  He remembered Penelope swooning over things great and small, which had become the fashion among well-to-do ladies of the South for a while. A doctor friend mentioned once that he attributed such behavior to corsets that were so tight they brought on a lack of oxygen, but Skypilot thought it probably had more to do with the fact that Penelope’s friends swooned, and so she swooned.

  It was supposed to make a man feel big and strong, and it worked. He’d caught Penelope in his arms more than once when a comment or scene overcame her.

  He could just imagine the look of contempt in Moon Song’s dark eyes if she ever witnessed such behavior.

  The town didn’t come a minute too soon. Moon Song felt as though she would drop. In fact, her fatigue had grown so great she had begun to despair of having the strength to continue one more hour. The lack of food and the constant labor had left her feeling weak and disoriented. When they nosed up to the pier, Skypilot was able to crawl up and out of the canoe, but she sat stationary, hardly able to move.

  Her legs hurt. Her arms hurt. Her back hurt from carrying the baby continually on the cradle board. Had an experienced rowing partner been in the canoe, she would have felt more comfortable taking the cradle board off and leaning it up against the side of the boat. But with Skypilot and his great bulk and inexperience? Never. She had to be ready to be thrown into the water and swim at all times.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Now it is me who cannot move.”

  Skypilot helped her out of the canoe, and both sat on the pier getting their bearings and absorbing the fact that they were here. Wondering what came next.

  What came next was a middle-aged man in a black robe who walked over and stood staring down at them. She’d had some contact with the Black Robes in the past and respected them. The Jesuits did what they could for her people, even though what they could do was seldom enough.

  “My name is Father William Slovic,” the Black Robe said to Skypilot. “It looks like you two have had a long and arduous journey.”

  “We have.”

  “My housekeeper can provide you with fo
od and shelter.”

  Food and shelter sounded mighty good to Moon Song, but she had no energy left for talking. All she wanted was a place to lie down and rest her raw hands. She knew how to endure, and she would never speak of her pain, but her hands hurt terribly.

  “We would appreciate anything you could do for us.” Skypilot dragged himself to his feet. “My name is Isaac Ross. My friends call me Skypilot. This is Moon Song and her son, Ayasha.”

  “When you are rested enough to follow me, I’ll take you and your wife to my home.”

  It was an understandable assumption, but Skypilot did not feel like he could ignore it.

  “She’s not my wife.”

  “Well, we can fix that.” The priest rubbed his hands together.

  “You don’t understand,” Skypilot said. “We were in a shipwreck east of here a few days ago.”

  “The Belle Fortune?”

  “Yes.”

  “We were anticipating the arrival of that ship, but when it didn’t come, we hoped that it was merely delayed.”

  “It was most definitely delayed,” Skypilot said. “Permanently.”

  Moon Song was surprised at the bitterness she heard in his voice. He was always so strong of heart. The fatigue must be getting to him too.

  “There were many souls lost?”

  “At least forty.”

  “Did anyone besides you survive?”

  “One woman. Isabella. She was the wife of Colonel Hatchette, who was to take over command of Fort Wilkins. We had to leave her behind.”

  “How far behind?”

  “A day’s journey by canoe. Isabella has not been right in the head since losing her husband and child. We were afraid to bring her with us for fear she would capsize the canoe.”

  “Can you draw us a map of how to find her?”

  “Yes, plus we tied some white cloth to a tree limb that you can see easily if you go by boat.”

  “We’ll get a group of men together immediately to go get her.”

  “Tell them to pack some food,” Skypilot said. “They’ll need it. And so will she.”

  “I will take care of it,” the priest said. “How do you happen to possess a canoe?”

  “Moon Song found it, repaired it, and trained me how to use it. Both Isabella and I would be dead by now if it wasn’t for this amazing woman.”

  “Ah. I see.” The priest looked back and forth between the two of them. “Well, now. Please come with me. While my housekeeper tends to your needs, I’ll get some men together to rescue this Isabella.”

  Moon Song had never been so grateful to see another woman in her life as she was the priest’s housekeeper. Mrs. Veachy was middle-aged and portly, and told Moon Song that she had been providing hospitality to stray people the priest brought home to her for the past three years.

  Moon Song was almost beyond caring what happened. Her arms and back ached. Her baby needed to be fed. Her stomach was beginning to growl yet again.

  “You’re safe now, dear,” Mrs. Veachy said. “As soon as we get some food down you, you can have a nice bath and then get some sleep. I’ll be happy to take care of this little pumpkin for you a few hours.”

  Moon Song was grateful for Mrs.Veachy’s ministrations. The first thing the housekeeper did was ladle up two large bowls of thick, nourishing beef soup with plenty of fresh bread and butter. Moon Song had to caution Skypilot not to gorge—she had known true hunger, but she suspected that he had not. She did not want him losing his supper from eating too much. As soon as she’d finished her food, Mrs. Veachy saw to it that she had a good bath, and soon she was tucked away beneath clean-smelling blankets on a bed filled with fresh straw that felt like heaven. She had no doubt that Ayasha would be well taken care of by that bustling, kind woman. She gave herself permission to sink into blessed and complete oblivion.

  It was after noon when Skypilot awoke to voices. He threw on his clothes and went outside to the kitchen.

  Father Slovic was standing in the middle of the room, still in his black frock coat. The tail end of it was wet and his black boots were mud splattered. Three other men were with him, along with a bedraggled Isabella, who was sitting at the kitchen table, eating what appeared to be a bowl of bread and milk.

  Mrs. Veachy was seated in a rocking chair, holding Ayasha, who was sound asleep.

  “Did you have any trouble finding her?” Skypilot asked.

  The three other men waited respectfully for Slovic to speak.

  “No trouble finding her, although we were a little surprised to find her pointing a rifle at us.”

  “A rifle?” He was dumbfounded. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No,” Father Slovic said. “It was broken.”

  “But where would Isabella find a rifle?”

  Isabella sat eating, as though unaware that they were talking about her.

  “She hasn’t spoken a word yet, but I’m guessing she found it lying around the camp. Part of the annuities the Indians got this year from the federal government in return for the lands they ceded is food, clothing, and a rifle,” Father Slovic said. “Each brave was given a gun and a pouch of shot to help him hunt and feed his family during the winter. The rifles were so cheaply made that many blew up in their hands. More than one warrior has been maimed by them this year. That’s why the Chippewa abandoned that fishing village so fast and ended up leaving behind a damaged canoe. I recognized it when you came in. The owner had a son who was blinded by that rifle. They brought him here to see our doctor.”

  Skypilot was concerned. “Did the doctor help?”

  “He tried, but the young brave will never see again. Others will try to keep his family from starving.” The Jesuit’s jaw clenched. “I’ve sent letters of disapproval to government officials, but I doubt it will do any good.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Skypilot felt sick over such greed and injustice.

  Moon Song entered the room. “I take baby now.”

  She had been transformed. She was wearing a long, ruffled gown. Her hair had been washed and brushed. He did not know what had happened to the clothes that Delia had purchased for her, but without them, she looked like a different person from the one with whom he’d escaped from the steamship.

  The three men who had gone with Father Slovic eyed her hungrily. Whether they were good men or bad, he did not know, nor did he intend to leave her alone with them long enough to find out. He was grateful she had not been there earlier. Hopefully, she had not heard about the defective guns her people had been given.

  “Ayasha good baby?” Moon Song asked Mrs. Veachy.

  Mrs. Veachy handed him to her. “He’s been an angel.”

  Skypilot noticed that Ayasha was dressed in diapers and a long blue dress, the kind most white baby boys wore until they were old enough to wear britches.

  “Father Slovic says that woman there has no man.” One of the men pointed at Isabella. “Is that true?”

  “Her husband and baby were killed a few days ago,” Skypilot said.

  “I don’t care if she’s only been a widow a couple of minutes,” the man said. “I’m laying my claim on that woman.”

  “Leave her alone,” Slovic said. “She’s not right in the head yet.”

  “Don’t matter none to me,” the larger one said. “She’s kind of draggy-looking right now, but I bet she’ll clean up good.”

  “It’s time for you to go home,” Slovic said. “I apologize. My friends here mean no insult, but there are a lot more men than white women in the Upper Peninsula. When one shows up, sometimes there are brawls.”

  Isabella gave no indication that she had heard a word. Instead, she merely shoved her empty bowl away from her.

  “Would you like some more, dear?” Mrs. Veachy said.

  Isabella reached for a lead pencil lying on a side table near a large Bible, and began to draw on the priest’s snowy white tablecloth.

  “Isabella!” Skypilot scolded. “Don’t draw on the priest’s good tablecloth.”

  She
ignored him while her pencil flew.

  “Leave the poor child alone,” the Jesuit said. “If drawing gives her a sense of relief, then that tablecloth is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

  Skypilot noticed that Mrs. Veachy didn’t look quite as willing to make that sacrifice, but she held back her words. Soon, even she did not seem to care about the sacrifice of a tablecloth for the awe she felt as she saw it transformed.

  This was no child’s drawing. It was a professional sketch, and it was fascinating to watch it come to life before their eyes. This reminded him of the picture she’d drawn of her husband on birch bark, only much, much better.

  Mrs. Veachy was an impressive housekeeper, and the tablecloth had been starched and ironed to within an inch of its life. On the hardwood table, it made an almost perfect drawing surface.

  With a few deft strokes, Isabella was turning the tablecloth into a priceless canvas. All stood there, amazed, as a baby’s face emerged, laughing, happy. Skypilot could almost hear him giggling.

  In one corner, she drew the same baby’s face asleep, his eyes closed on rounded cheeks, innocent, mouth poked out as though in deep thought while he slept, a tiny hand curled under his cheek.

  While they marveled at that picture, another emerged from the other corner, the same baby looking all dewy-eyed as though he had just awakened from a nap.

  Isabella drew feverishly as she immortalized image after image of her child on the makeshift canvas of the linen tablecloth. From time to time she would stop, grab a paring knife off the sink, and sharpen the end of the pencil. Then she would start in again, shading, forming, creating a masterpiece of a mother’s love . . . and grief.

  “We will have to purchase another tablecloth after today, Mrs. Veachy,” Slovic said. “Or do without. We shall never wash this one. It has become a holy thing.”

  “I agree, Father,” the housekeeper said.

  Isabella didn’t stop until every square inch of the kitchen table was filled with images of her child, studies of his hands, his tiny feet, a dimpled knee, a perfect, shell-like ear. It was as though she was driven to immortalize every feature, every wisp of hair. It was almost magical watching her create those images, and Skypilot was unable to turn away, as was the priest and Mrs. Veachy. By the time she finished, the pencil was nothing but a nub.