Under a Blackberry Moon

by Serena Miller

  He prayed for guidance, and the answer he got was that if he intended to love Moon Song, he had to learn to love her people because, truth be told, he did not.

  And so he decided that he would go to the small, depleted tribe of Chippewa who lived on the outskirts of the town, and out of love for Moon Song, humble himself and begin to learn from her people.

  Moon Song had once again become part of a community of women who shared one thought and one purpose: surviving the winter with the tribe intact. Last winter had been a hard one. They had lost three of their elders and two new infants. The freezing moons were not a good time to give birth.

  Fallen Arrow, however, had recouped her strength and was now, as one of the revered older women, busy teaching the younger ones in the proper ways of harvesting crops and preparing the gifts of their forest and waters as each food ripened.

  Containers had to be created in order to store food, and the best containers of all came from the bark of the birch, which kept food from spoiling for long periods of time.

  “Waa!” Fallen Arrow pretended exaggerated upset with one of the younger girls who recently had her head in the clouds over a handsome brave. “Watch how you sew that food bag!”

  Fallen Arrow jerked it out of the girl’s hand, unthreaded the longish stitches the girl had been making, and sewed up one side with the tighter, smaller stitches.

  “It would take a tree full of spruce sap to make those long stitches you make hold rice!”

  The girl ducked her head and applied herself more diligently. Moon Song smiled because she knew that her grandmother was showing off a little now that she was feeling well enough to be outside working alongside the other women. Moon Song promised herself that whatever it took, whatever she had to do, her grandmother would not go hungry this winter, nor would any of the other elders. They were too precious. Without them there to entertain the children with the old stories, teaching the old ways of living, keeping their language alive, she feared they would lose their identity and turn into nothing more than second-class whites.

  Early one morning after school ended, Skypilot packed his few possessions and walked to the nearby Chippewa village. Moon Song’s boy cousin, Little Gray Squirrel, was the first to welcome him to the village. Skypilot and the boy had walked many miles together, and Skypilot had purchased him some treats at the store after they returned. The sack of candy he had given the boy had been large enough to make the child’s eyes grow wide, and he had enjoyed seeing Little Gray Squirrel’s happiness.

  Now, that sack of candy was paying off in another way. The child was ecstatic to see him, and yes, Skypilot had brought sweets with him. Soon the old grandmother came to speak to him, and then others who were curious.

  “You come trade?” an elderly and dignified Chippewa man asked.

  Skypilot thought about his answer. He decided to be utterly honest. The only thing he had to lose was his dignity—which he wasn’t terribly interested in hanging on to anymore.

  “I am in love with Moon Song, granddaughter of Fallen Arrow. She lives with her grandmother on the reservation. She will not have me until I have spent many moons living in the Rockland area. While I wait, I want to learn how to be Chippewa.”

  His statement was met with grunts of derision and disbelief.

  “I am willing to pay. The first thing I want to learn is how to build a wigwam.” Then he produced a small bag of coins, nearly the last money he possessed.

  The older man, whom he assumed was a chief, took the bag from him, spilled it out into his hand, said a few words in Chippewa to those standing around, and then he disappeared into his own abode.

  The money must have done the trick. Two women and Little Gray Squirrel worked with him all day, cutting saplings, embedding them into the earth, bending them over, and creating a skeleton that they then showed him how to cover with mats, skins, and the ever-present birch bark.

  As they worked, they chattered in their language. He asked them to slow down and teach him a word here and there of Chippewa. Little Gray Squirrel became his translator.

  That night, instead of the familiar sounds and surroundings of his boardinghouse, he had a self-made shelter large enough for him to stretch out in, that might, if he were lucky, keep most of the rain out. Tomorrow he would work to make it more rain tight. He went to sleep practicing over and over the four Chippewa words he had learned that day.

  wild rice—manoomin

  meat—wiiyaas

  eat—wiisini

  hungry—nimbakade

  Four words closer to Moon Song. She had learned his language. Now, he would learn hers.

  Although he did not know it, reports of Skypilot’s attempts filtered back to Moon Song, brought by her distant cousins who came to visit and tell her of his efforts.

  Skypilot’s “summer school” was one of the most entertaining things to happen for quite a while, and her cousins were convinced that the big white man was a little mad in the head for doing such a thing.

  From what Moon Song could tell, in addition to being taught true woodcraft, he was being made fun of quite a lot, and they sometimes played sly tricks on him.

  “We showed him how to steep aspen and balsam poplar root,” Fish Who Leaps told her. “He was very careful to follow our instructions. He drank it every hour just like we told him.”

  “And what did he hope to accomplish by this?”

  “He had an upset stomach last week, and we told him it would stop if he drank it.”

  “And how did it affect him?”

  “Oh, it worked very well.” Peals of laughter. “The white man who lives among us has not had a monthly flow since.”

  Moon Song could not help but laugh. The idea of the masculine Skypilot sitting at a campfire, sipping a brew meant solely for slowing down women’s menses, really was quite funny. She just hoped that was the worst joke they played on him.

  Eventually, as the days passed, the stories brought to her village became a little more respectful.

  “He now knows one hundred Chippewa words,” Hopping Cricket informed her a few weeks later. “And he is chopping wood with his sharp axe. He brings the firewood to the wigwams of two grandmothers who are no longer strong enough to gather wood for their fires.”

  This was a huge thing to do, and probably troubling to the tribe. Wood gathering was women’s work, no matter how ancient the woman.

  “What does he ask for in return?” Moon Song asked.

  “He asks for nothing in return.”

  She kept wondering when he would grow tired of this. She kept expecting to be told that he had given up and gone back into town, into his comfortable boardinghouse. Instead, she saw the laughter slowly growing to respect, and eventually some envy began to creep into her girl relatives’ voices.

  He had mastered three hundred words. Now, four hundred.

  The big white man had killed a fat deer and shared it with the tribe.

  The big white man who was as strong as a bear had talked the town doctor into treating a little Chippewa girl’s sore eyes after their own medicine failed.

  Big White Bear, the name the elders had given Skypilot, had shot six pheasants and given two each to the old grandmothers.

  Big White Bear had asked Frog Who Laughs how to make snowshoes for the winter, but Dancing Fawn had made him a pair as a gift. The gossip in the tribe was that Dancing Fawn, who had lost her husband twelve moons ago, was trying to show him what a good wife she would make.

  This was not gossip Moon Song wanted to hear. In fact, it displeased her greatly. Dancing Fawn was young and attractive. Most men’s heads would be turned by her. The fact that a full year had passed meant that she had grieved well and was ready to look for a new husband.

  “Did he keep the snowshoe gift from Dancing Fawn?” she asked.

  “No. He said he needed to learn how to do this. Dancing Fawn was disappointed and gave them to Loon Swimming instead.”

  His dedication to learning the culture of the woman he lo
ved did not escape the notice of the braves of the village. Many began to pay more careful attention to her. She knew it was because they thought there must be something special about her to elicit such dedication from this former timberman.

  Gifts began to appear for Fallen Arrow, who tried to talk her into becoming interested in one of the braves instead of Skypilot.

  “No, Grandmother,” Moon Song said.

  Small toys were offered to little Standing Bear. Dolls made out of birch bark, or pine boughs to make dance in the water. One Chippewa brave carved a series of five ducks and made Standing Bear laugh by placing them into a small stream where they floated until he caught them again.

  Moon Song thanked him on behalf of her son, but she was careful to show no interest in the brave himself, and he went away disappointed.

  Even had she not cared so much for Skypilot, she would have been afraid to give her heart to one of the Chippewa men who were showing interest in her. She was, as Skypilot pointed out, a wealthy woman. No one knew about this inheritance yet—she had not even told her grandmother what the tin box truly contained—but her people were notorious for undervaluing land and selling it. How could she have any assurance that some Chippewa brave she might marry would not do the same with property that belonged to her?

  Right or wrong, her father had sacrificed his life to build this inheritance for her, and she would not dishonor that sacrifice by selling it.

  In her heart, she was cheering Skypilot on, hoping he would not give up. She hoped that he would continue to love her enough to learn to cherish her people.

  Five hundred words, a cousin reported.

  Six hundred.

  He had put away his white man’s clothes. He now wore the buckskin of the braves. His hair had grown longer and had to be held back with strips of leather. He had asked permission to put off going back to the white man’s school for another moon. He said he had not yet learned enough.

  He had mastered the bow and arrow and had brought down a large buck with one he had made with his own hands.

  The Chippewa children were starting to gather around him as he drew the words into his word-catching notebook. Even some of the older people were starting to sit around, and he was beginning to teach them how to read.

  His amazing ability with his axe had helped provide nearly enough firewood to get the village through a hard winter. With that chore lightened, the women were able to spend more time gathering the hickory, walnuts, beechnuts, and rich butternuts that were falling now.

  Seven hundred words. All of them written on a stack of paper that he pored over every afternoon. He had to rely on English less and less. The tribe was beginning to take him seriously. None of the women giggled anymore about the crazy white man who loved Moon Song. Instead, all were beginning to look at her with envious eyes.

  24

  Skypilot could no longer put off starting the school back up again. The beginning of October would be a late start back East, but this was the frontier.

  He was in the church building, preparing a few lessons for the next day, when Harvey Turney walked in. Skypilot was glad to see the man. He had several things he wanted to talk to him about. Newer textbooks, for one thing. The possibility of filling some of the desks with a few of his little friends from the Chippewa village for another. Those children were learning so quickly, and they were teaching him quite a lot besides.

  Harvey didn’t beat around the bush. “I hear you’ve been spending part of the summer living with the Chippewa tribe outside of town.”

  “That’s true.”

  “In a wigwam?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “A lot of people in town aren’t real happy about the idea of our schoolteacher choosing to live among a bunch of savages.”

  Was this the same man who had stood there spitting tobacco juice at a cat the first time he’d met him?

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  Harvey fidgeted with his pocket watch. “Because, well . . . you know.”

  Skypilot kept his face impassive. “No. I do not know.”

  “We do not think this is a proper activity for a man who will be guiding the minds of our children. If you are going to be our teacher, we insist that you start living like a proper white man.”

  “And who is this ‘we’?” Skypilot asked.

  Harvey Turney drew himself up to his full height. “Those of us who pay your salary.”

  Skypilot closed the notebook in which he had been making out lesson plans. “Good luck finding another teacher.”

  Harvey got flustered. “Now, look here, you know we’ll have a hard time finding a teacher willing to come all the way up here, let alone one who can deal with these students.”

  Skypilot had learned a thing or two from the Chippewa. He stood impassively, watching this man bluster.

  “I suppose you could stay with them awhile longer, but you’ll need to be moving back into the boardinghouse before it gets cold. You can’t possibly survive out there over the winter.”

  “They do,” Skypilot said. “They survive.”

  “They live like dogs!” Harvey’s voice rose.

  Skypilot did not trust himself to speak. Instead, he picked up his notebook of Chippewa words and walked toward the door. He knew he had to leave before he knocked Turney senseless.

  “Who’s going to teach our children?” Harvey yelled after him.

  “Don’t worry,” Skypilot said. “I’m not going to abandon the children. I’ll be back on the job tomorrow.”

  Turney’s eyes were angry, narrow slits—a man unused to being thwarted. “Not unless you start living like a civilized human being, you won’t. We don’t want Indian lovers teaching our kids.”

  “Why don’t you try it yourself if you’re so concerned,” Skypilot said.

  “I just might!” Harvey said. “In fact . . .” A calculating look came into his eyes. “I think I will.”

  “It’s true then? The copper giving out, is it?” It was the only reason Skypilot could think of that would tempt Turney into stepping into the role of a teacher instead of a mine foreman.

  “You’re fired.” Turney turned his back on him. “I’ll be taking over starting today.”

  “Fired?” Skypilot could hardly believe his ears. He wondered if this had been in the back of Turney’s mind when the man had come in here. He gave Harvey a long, hard look before he left. “You won’t last a week.”

  As satisfactory as that parting shot was, Skypilot now had a problem. He had no job in a town where jobs were getting scarce. The only thing he could think of was the possibility of getting a job in the copper mine, which was still working, in spite of less and less copper being brought out.

  He didn’t want to go down into the mines, but on the other hand, he was broke. Choosing to live in a wigwam was one thing. Having to live there because he couldn’t afford to live anywhere else was another.

  He headed over to the copper mine to check into applying for work. As he approached the place, he saw what looked like a body wrapped in sheeting being carried out. Several weary-looking miners were walking beside it.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Poor man was coming up from the 120th fathom in a shaft he was helping to sink,” one of the miners explained as both of them watched the others carrying the body up the hill. “When he got to the 110th fathom, his hand missed the top rung, and he fell backward to the bottom. Seventy-five feet he dropped. He hit his head something terrible. We had an awful time getting him out of there. He’s still alive, but I don’t think he’ll make it the night. Got a wife and four children.”

  Skypilot noticed that the man had blood all over the front of his shirt. “You were one of the ones who got him out?”

  “I was.” The miner swiped a sleeve over his eyes. “They ask too much of a man, making him climb so far, hand over hand when he’s already dead-dog tired. And those rungs slick as grease most days from the damp. One slip. Just one. It’s all it takes. And him a
miner since he was only a boy.”

  Before Skypilot could say another word, the miner walked on toward the sad procession.

  Skypilot looked at the mining office and then back at the group of men toting their broken friend back to his home.

  If he had a wife and children to feed, he would go into the mines if it was the only way to take care of them. But with only himself to take care of, he would find something else, or do without. After watching that procession, living on venison in a wigwam all winter didn’t seem like a bad option.

  Moon Song and Standing Bear were deep in the woods, competing with squirrels to see who could gather the most acorns for the winter. Standing Bear at twelve months was able to walk quite well for his age. He was bright enough to be a lot of help at this task. Together they were making a game of gathering acorns and heaping them into a basket.

  When they finished, she would cut the nut meat out of the acorn and then he would enjoy playing in the stream, helping her rinse the poison bitterness out of the acorns. Once all that was left was the sweet goodness of the seed from which the great oaks grew, she would dry it and pound it into flour to thicken stews or mix with corn cakes.

  Suddenly, she saw one of the older boys race past. His eyes were wide with pure terror.

  “Hanging Leaf!” she shouted in Chippewa. “Why do you run?”

  He halted and looked back at her, panting.

  “They have come.”

  “Who has come?” They had no sworn enemies anymore, and they and the neighboring whites got along well enough as long as they stayed on their reservation and didn’t try to encroach on land the whites now considered theirs.

  “Government people.”

  This was puzzling. They waited sometimes too long for the government workers to show up with the annuities that they had been promised, but that only meant having to wait in long lines. Government people meant that food, guns, ammunition, blankets, and sometimes money were going to be distributed. Her people did not run away from gifts.