He heard a hesitation in the priest’s voice, as though he were considering whether or not to say what was on his mind.
“Please, whatever it is—I’d like to know,” Skypilot said.
“Did you know that Moon Song’s father was white?”
Skypilot’s jaw dropped. “No.”
“I was talking about her the other day to another Chippewa who knows her family. They said that Moon Song’s father was the youngest son of a wealthy man from Boston. He came out here to check into the possibility of buying some copper mining property for his father. He stayed four years, and when he left, he took his daughter, Moon Song, away from her mother and went back to Boston. The mother apparently killed herself from grief. The father brought Moon Song back at some point, dropped her off on her grandparents, and disappeared from her life.”
“I can’t believe it.”
Slovic shrugged. “It’s not the first time something like that has happened up here, and it probably won’t be the last.”
Skypilot was staggered. Of all the things Slovic could have told him, this was one thing he would never have guessed. No wonder she was so adamant about never marrying a white man. Both her and her deceased husband had been abandoned as children by their white fathers. Why had she never said anything?
He stood looking out at the lake, rethinking everything he’d known about Moon Song. How little he had understood. No wonder she clung to her child with such passion—she who had been wrested away from her mother.
So many pieces began to fall into place. No wonder she had picked up English so quickly. It had, no doubt, been at least part of her childhood.
He also understood why she had rejected him before he could convince himself to propose to her. It wasn’t just her husband’s father, it was her own.
“I can hardly bear to think of never hearing from her again. I wish there was some way I could know that she’s all right.”
“When she was here earlier, she mentioned that some of her extended family live on the L’Anse Indian reservation, which is near here. I go there from time to time. Leave me an address, and if I hear something, I’ll send you word.”
“Thank you, Father.” He watched the priest’s hands work for a while longer. “Would you mind explaining something to me? Something I’ve wondered about but didn’t know who to ask.”
“I’ll try.”
“Why did the Chippewa and Menominee and the others sign the treaties that gave away their land? How could they have sold this beautiful country away for a few trinkets?”
“It isn’t quite as simple as that,” Slovic said calmly. “The northern woodland tribes did not trade land for beads and trinkets. They traded for survival.”
“Because the white man had killed off all the game?”
“It was not just white men who killed off game. The Indians did much of that as well, and in the beginning, it wasn’t necessarily for survival.”
“Again—I don’t understand.”
“When traders first came, they brought good things with them: iron pots, steel knives, steel traps. All it took was a few beaver pelts to purchase them, and everyone was happy. Then the traders brought in glass beads and steel needles, so much finer and stronger than the bones they had used in the past, and fine-colored silk thread with which to do fine embroidery. All of it affordable—only one or two beaver skins. Then some traders enticed braves to go into debt to them. They would outfit a brave with traps and supplies. Some Indians worked all winter and still did not have enough to cover their debt.”
Although Slovic’s voice remained even, Skypilot saw that his hands were jerking the sinew he was weaving with more force than necessary.
“As the fur became less plentiful, the braves had to find some other way to provide for their families. The government was happy to buy their land on what some would consider the payment plan. A certain amount each year for many years, enough with which to support their families. The Indians signed hundreds of thousands of acres away for pennies per acre, thinking it would give them financial security. Instead, what they received, for the most part, was shoddy goods—like those exploding rifles—and reservations upon which they were expected to live.”
The priest finished the repair, tied it off, and cut the sinew.
“You’re angry,” Skypilot said.
“I live angry because of what I’ve seen,” the Jesuit said. “Righteous anger is a powerful force. That is what gives me the strength to keep going.”
The steamboat whistle blew, and they both looked toward the source.
“It is time for you to depart, my friend.” Slovic clasped his hand.
He was surprised a few moments later when Isabella informed him that she was not getting on the ship with him.
“Why?” he asked. “I thought you had family you planned to visit for a while until you decided what to do.”
“That can wait,” Isabella said. “I have some . . . other things to do first. I’ll be fine.”
“Other things?”
“I’ll be fine,” Isabella repeated. “Don’t worry about me, Skypilot. You have done enough.”
17
Moon Song was not easily frightened, but for several miles she had felt that someone was following her. Friend or foe, she knew not. To be on the side of caution, she fastened Ayasha’s cradle board to the side of the mule, freeing her hands in case she had to fight.
It would have been nice to have the big lumberman beside her. He might not know how to fashion a snare for a rabbit, but he would be deadly with his fists. Her decision to send him away had been more of a struggle than she could ever allow him to see. He had no idea how badly she wanted him to come with her and to love her, but that was the problem. How long would he stay? How long before he tired of her? How long before he would want to return to his old life, the one he’d had before she’d ever met him?
And yet, alone in these woods, and especially with a baby to protect, it would have been a welcome thing to have him beside her.
She heard a twig snap. And then another. That told her nothing of value. It could mean that she was being followed by a white man too clumsy to cover the sound of his own footsteps. It could mean that it was an Indian who was being polite and allowing her to hear them approach. Or it could be a four-legged predator. Her horror of wolves was always near the surface.
She eased the knife out of her boot and held it tightly in her right hand as she led the mule with the other. She did not look back over her shoulder. Surprising her opponent by not giving away the fact that she knew he was there would give her an advantage.
“Wife of my brother,” a voice said.
“Rising Star!” She whirled around. “Oh, it is good that it is you.”
The feeling of relief was great. This was a man she had always liked and trusted.
“My brother is not with you.”
This was one of the things she had dreaded about coming back: telling her husband’s family that he was gone.
“He sleeps with your ancestors.”
There was no change in the expression on the face whose features were an echo of her husband’s. She noticed that the lines in his face had grown deeper since the last time she had seen him, and there was more gray in his hair.
“How did he fall?”
“He went to set traps and never returned. A white man who looks for trees for lumber camps later found him caught in a beaver trap. Drowned.”
One eyebrow went up. “My young brother was more skilled than that. He would never have allowed himself to get caught in a trap.”
“He left our camp with a full bottle of whiskey in his pack. He thought I did not see him put it there, but I did.”
“Oh.” Rising Star’s face fell. “He loved the white man’s liquor too much.”
“In the end, he loved it more than me. I gave birth alone, with no food. I waited but he never came back.”
“This man who found him?”
“He buried my husband’s b
ody and brought his knife to the lumber camp where I worked.”
“Is it the one you hold in your hand?”
She handed it to him. “It is.”
Rising Star handled the knife with as much reverence as if it had been a lock of hair from his younger brother’s head.
“I gave this to him,” he said. “He was twelve.”
“I know. He often mentioned that. I now keep it with me always. Last week it cut the throat of a wolf that would have eaten Ayasha.”
“I am grateful that my brother’s son will be raised by such a courageous mother.”
Those kind words from a man she had always liked and trusted was her undoing. The months since she had walked out of the woods with her starving baby had been difficult—but she had underestimated how much of a toll they had taken. She had worked so hard for so long . . . just to survive and keep Ayasha alive. Now, here with her husband’s brother—their voices and faces so alike—the memories she had kept at bay came flooding back. Not the bad days after the drinking had begun, but the good days together when she had loved him, and when he had loved her and only her.
She turned her face away from him. “I must go.”
Quickly, she left him with the mule and Ayasha and ran into the woods. Instead of relieving herself, as she wanted him to think, she found a huge oak tree, deep in the forest, sank down behind it on a cushion of old leaves, and began to sob. She’d been trying to hold back the tears all day—and with the exception of a few that had leaked out against her will, she had succeeded. Now, she could hold them back no longer. With Rising Star safely guarding Ayasha, she cried her heart out in the greatest flood of grief she had ever felt.
She grieved her love for her young husband, and the white man’s whiskey that had taken him from her. She grieved the fact that he would never know their young son, or teach him to hunt and to become a man. She grieved over the way she had been treated in Bay City by Stink Breath—how he and his son had acted like she was a thing instead of a person. She grieved the fact that she would never see Katie or Delia or Robert and Katie’s children whom she had grown to love. She grieved the life she saw stretching out before her as her people’s way of life grew more and more difficult. She grieved the fact that her son would grow up in a world so strange and different from that of her and her grandparents. And then a fresh wave of sobs wracked her body as thoughts of Skypilot washed over her. He was the finest and truest man she had ever known—and she would never see him again.
When she emerged again from the forest, Rising Star kindly made no mention of her appearance, even though she knew he could tell from her swollen eyes what she had been doing.
Rising Star was not a young man. He was a much older brother of her husband and full Menominee. He had not been happy that his little brother had been fathered by a white trapper but he had loved him.
Now, he looked at her with sad eyes. “It would be best if in the future you did not marry a man who loves whiskey as much as my brother.”
Her thoughts ran immediately to Skypilot, whom she had never seen take one drink.
“I agree.”
“You are going to your grandmother?” Rising Star asked by way of speaking of happier things. Neither of them acknowledged the amount of time that had elapsed while she cried her eyes out.
“Yes. I hope to find that she survived the winter.”
“I have heard that it was a hard one for her, but she improves now that spring is here. Seeing you again will be good medicine for her.”
“As she has always been for me. I will stay and care for her.”
“She is worthy of your care. Our people could learn much from her instead of relying so heavily upon the government’s annuities.”
Moon Song nodded. “Those are true words.”
“May I continue to walk with you?”
“I would very much like the company, Rising Star.”
He looked at Ayasha. “Your son is a fine child. He reminds me much of my little brother at that age.”
It brightened Moon Song’s heart to hear Ayasha praised. “He is very strong and bright. Like his father.”
“I saw you saying good-bye to a white man back at the fort,” Rising Star said. “May I ask who he is to you?”
She answered honestly. “He is my friend.”
“A very good friend, I think.” Rising Star’s voice was mild, but she heard the underlying tension.
“We will not see him again,” Moon Song assured him.
“That is good,” Rising Star said. “That is best.”
Having Rising Star find her had been a good thing. Not only was he good company, he also had a valuable rifle that he had paid money for, not one of the government-issued guns. With it, he shot enough small game to make it possible for them to eat well without waiting to set snares or dipping into the provisions Skypilot had given her. She looked forward to surprising her grandmother with such a bounty of gifts, not to mention the unexpected possession of a good mule.
After several days’ travel, during which they carefully avoided the copper mining towns that dotted the Keweenaw, they drew close to her grandmother’s village. There, Rising Star left her.
“I must see to my own family now,” he said. “They will be much saddened to hear of my brother’s passing. Now that I have found you and know what happened, I can stop searching. But we will meet again.” Then he melted into the shadows of the trees and was gone.
Much had changed since she had seen her grandmother. They would have so many things to talk of. Finally there would be someone to whom she could pour out her heart.
Living in a one-room log cabin had been one of the many changes the whites had brought about now that most of the Chippewa had moved to the reservation. Instead of moving from place to place with the seasons—to the rice fields when they were ready to harvest, to the sugar bush when the sap flowed in the maple trees, to the lake when it was time to catch and smoke a winter’s supply of fish—they lived in one place.
Instead of the efficient and relatively mobile wigwams that could be taken up and put together in less than a day, they were expected to stay in one place and live their lives from these dank structures.
Tuberculosis was rampant among her people. She did not know if the change in their living situation had caused the disease, or if it was caused by being in too much proximity to the whites, but it was a scourge of her people. Venereal disease had taken a terrible toll, especially to the children born of diseased parents. Even measles was life threatening when one’s body had few defenses against it, especially if that body was already weakened by hunger.
Her grandmother, wiser than most when it came to medicinal plants, tried to help as much as she could, but these were diseases for which she could do little.
Worst of all, in Moon Song’s opinion, was the hopelessness she saw in her people’s eyes. Too many had given up. They were so tied to the land that when it was no longer theirs to roam at will, it was as though they no longer knew who they were. And so a people who believed in visions sought those visions in the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
Hollow-eyed children peeked out at her from some of the gaping, dark doorways as she passed. Young men, who years ago would be out hunting for game, lounged in the yards. She avoided engaging in conversation with any of them. That would come later but not now. First she must see her grandmother.
She was surprised to see two of the tribal women sitting outside her grandmother’s one-room cabin, busying themselves around Fallen Arrow’s outdoor campfire.
“Where is Fallen Arrow?” Moon Song asked in Chippewa.
“Is it you, Moon Song?” The younger woman blocked the sun from her eyes with one hand. “Your grandmother has been waiting for you. One who had seen you at the fort came to tell her. She’s inside.”
Moon Song found it strange that her grandmother had not come out to greet her. The sound of her voice alone should have brought Fallen Arrow to her side after so many months apart.
&
nbsp; “Is something wrong with her?” Moon Song asked.
The older woman, a relative known as Fighting Sparrow who was preparing a small meal over Grandmother’s campfire, glanced up but did not answer the question directly. “It is good that you have come.”
What exactly did that mean? A feeling of dread entered Moon Song’s stomach. The fact that the two women watched her so closely instead of immediately exclaiming over Ayasha struck her as odd.
She ducked into the low doorway of her grandmother’s cabin. Fallen Arrow had always been the strongest person Moon Song had ever known, and had once been the wife of the great chief Standing Bear.
Now she found her grandmother lying upon a thick bear rug placed upon a sleeping bench. This was not normal behavior for her grandmother to lie down in the middle of the day unless she was extremely ill. Moon Song’s worries that Fallen Arrow would have difficulty getting through the harsh winter had been justified.
“I brought someone to see you, Grandmother,” Moon Song said.
Her grandmother reached out a trembling hand and placed it on Moon Song’s sleeve. “You’re home.”
“I am home and I have brought my boy child to you. You must get stronger so that you can teach him as you taught me.”
She slipped off Ayasha’s cradle board and positioned it so that her grandmother could see him. Fallen Arrow smiled and touched his face and hair.
“What a fine young brave you have brought into my cabin,” Fallen Arrow said. “He looks like his father.”
“His father no longer walks among us.”
Her grandmother’s eyes widened at this news. She struggled to sit up, and as soon as she did, she started coughing. The cough was deep and racking, and it frightened Moon Song.
The younger woman, Snowbird, who had been outside, came in and knelt down beside Fallen Arrow with a wooden bowl of broth in her hand.
“How long has she been like this?” Moon Song asked.
“She has been ill ever since the Sap Running in the Trees Moon,” she said. “She was not able to make our annual trip to the sugar bush, and you know how much she always loved being part of sugaring.”
Under a Blackberry Moon Page 17