by Becky Citra
I hugged Annie. Peter walked over to Sarah. He said something rapidly in Indian. Sarah shook her head hard. She beamed at Grandmother.
“I stay too,” she said slowly and carefully. “I stay with Agatha.”
I showed Annie and Sarah the baby fox. Grandmother had disappeared into the bedroom for a nap, shutting the door firmly.
Annie cradled Lucky in her hands. “There’s a family of foxes behind our village. I’ve been watching them. Yesterday the mother fox brought the babies out of the den for the first time.”
Annie stroked Lucky’s tiny ears. “The babies are pretty but not as pretty as this one. None of them are black.”
I felt a pang of envy. Annie didn’t have to worry about the mother fox killing geese and chickens. The Indians lived peacefully with the wild animals.
I warmed up a pan of milk, and Annie held Lucky while I fed him. Sarah smoked her pipe and watched us. Lucky sucked eagerly at the handkerchief for a while and then fell asleep in Annie’s hands. We put him back in the washtub. Sarah had fallen asleep too, her head nodding in the warmth of the fire.
Annie and I went outside. I showed her my sheep, and we decided they looked silly without their thick woolly fleeces. We spent the rest of the day hunting for bullfrogs beside the lake and picking wildflowers.
Grandmother came out of the bedroom for supper. Her eyebrows shot up. Sarah was sitting on the floor beside the fireplace, her mouth full of porcupine quills. Bundles of grass were scattered around her. She was weaving a small delicate bowl with strands of the red and pale golden grass. She nodded at Grandmother.
Grandmother watched Sarah work for a few minutes. Sarah’s nimble fingers wove a pattern of quills into the sides of the bowl.
“Very pretty,” said Grandmother stiffly.
She went to the table, her black dress rustling. I set out bowls of soup and bread, and Annie and I sat down beside her. Sarah stayed on the floor. When she had finished weaving the bowl, she took a bundle of dried salmon strips from her big basket.
The cabin filled with a strong fishy smell. Sarah chewed loudly and smacked her lips. Grandmother gave a faint shudder. She took small sips of soup, her face cold with disapproval.
After supper, Peter came back in the canoe. Grandmother stood by the table, her back rigid. Sarah gathered up all her belongings and packed them into her basket. With a huge smile, she gave the woven bowl to Grandmother.
Grandmother blinked in surprise. She turned it over and over in her hands. “It’s very nice,” she said weakly. “Thank you.”
“I come again,” said Sarah. She bent over and studied Grandmother’s black shoes peeking out from the bottom of her dress. Grandmother’s face froze. She took a step backwards.
“I make moccasins for Agatha,” Sarah announced happily.
Grandmother opened her mouth as if to protest, and then shut it firmly.
“I want to hold Lucky one more time before I go,” said Annie. She lifted the little fox out of the washtub. She touched her brown cheek against his furry head. Then she tucked him gently back into his warm bed.
Sarah made a clicking sound with her tongue. She poured out a stream of words in Indian to Peter.
“What is Sarah saying?” I asked.
“She says the fox needs his mother,” said Annie. “She says the cow’s milk is not right.”
A hollow feeling filled my chest.
Annie looked down at the floor. She whispered, “My grandmother says Lucky will die.”
10
In the morning, Lucky refused to drink. He lay limply in my hands, his eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m going to take him to the Indian village,” I said.
Grandmother’s eyebrows shot up.
“I thought about it all night,” I said in a rush. “Sarah is right. Lucky needs a mother. Annie says there’s a fox family living behind their village. I’m going to take Lucky there.”
Grandmother gave me a long hard look. “She’ll know he’s not her baby,” she said finally.
“It’s the only chance he’s got.” My voice wavered. “It’s a long way to walk. I’ll take Papa’s canoe.”
A look of doubt crossed Grandmother’s face.
“I’m allowed,” I said defiantly.
That was only partly true. Papa let me paddle his canoe along the shore on calm days. But the Indian village was on the other side of the lake. I didn’t look at Grandmother.
I went outside and fed the chickens and milked Nettie. When I finished, I scanned the lake. It was smooth and blue with not even a ripple. If I left right away, I could paddle across to the Indian village easily. I ran to the cabin.
Grandmother stood by the door. She was wearing her black bonnet and coat and a pair of black gloves. She clutched her knitting bag in one hand and her cane in the other.
We stared at each other. Then Grandmother said firmly, “You can’t go alone. I’m coming with you.”
Grandmother sat in the bow of Papa’s birch bark canoe. Her back was straight, and her hands were folded in her lap. I put the washtub with Lucky behind her on the bottom of the canoe. Then I climbed into the stern and paddled.
It was hard to stay in a straight line. The canoe zigzagged back and forth. I gritted my teeth, waiting for Grandmother’s sharp words. She gripped the sides of the canoe, but she didn’t say anything.
I counted my paddle strokes on each side. One two three four. Change sides. One two three four.
A loon drifted close to the canoe, watching us for a few minutes. Then it gave a loud cry and dove under the water.
My arms ached. When I looked down at the water, it felt like we were hardly moving at all. But when I glanced over my shoulder, our cabin looked like a toy sitting on the shore.
Slowly we inched across the lake. The Indian village was tucked into a small bay. At last I could pick out the huts, smoke drifting lazily into the blue sky above them. Three boys, playing by the water, watched us curiously. I spotted Annie sitting with some other girls scraping hides. She jumped up and waved wildly.
The bottom of the canoe scraped on the small pebble beach. Peter had walked down to meet us. He held onto Grandmother’s arm and helped her onto the beach. She smoothed her black dress, adjusted her bonnet and stared around her with her sharp gray eyes.
The Indian huts were covered with mats of woven grass and birch bark. Peter pulled back an animal skin covering the doorway of the nearest hut and called out something in Indian. A minute later Sarah appeared.
Her toothless grin spread across her face. “Agatha.”
Grandmother nodded stiffly. She rummaged in her knitting bag and brought out a pale blue scarf. She handed it to Sarah.
Sarah beamed. She wrapped the scarf around her neck. “Pretty!” she said.
Annie ran over. She helped me carry the washtub with Lucky to the hut. She and Peter listened carefully to my plan for Lucky. Then Peter turned and spoke in Indian to Sarah. She answered rapidly.
“My mother says Annie will take you to the den now,” said Peter. “She says this is a good time because the mother fox will be inside with her babies.”
My breath came out in a rush. Sarah must think there was at least a chance.
Peter turned to Grandmother and smiled. “My mother says you will be her guest while the girls are gone.”
I looked at Grandmother in alarm. Would she be afraid to be in the Indian village by herself?
Grandmother’s face was pale, but she straightened her shoulders and said, “Tell your mother I would like that very much.”
Peter gave me a small leather pouch with a strap. I tucked Lucky inside and slung the strap around my neck. The pouch bumped gently against my chest when I walked. I peeked inside. Lucky’s dark eyes stared up at me.
Annie and I walked along a trail into the forest behind the village. Sunlight shone through the trees in long stripes. Annie chattered happily, glad to be freed from her chores. I half listened, but I was mostly thinking about Lucky. It was hard to believe
I’d only had him a few days. How could I bear to give him up?
Suddenly Annie put her hand on my arm and said, “We’re almost there.”
We left the trail and climbed up a small grassy slope. A mound of rocks was piled at the top. My heart gave a lurch. There was a hole in the dirt at the base of the rocks. The den!
Annie and I crouched behind some low bushes. “They’ll be in there now,” whispered Annie. “The mother fox hunts at night.”
I slid my hand into the pouch and touched Lucky’s warm body. A sick feeling poured over me.
I looked at Annie. Her black eyes were bright. “Do it now,” she said in a low voice.
Lucky moved inside the pouch. Did he smell the foxes? I took a big breath. I stood up and walked softly over to the den. I crouched on the ground and pushed some leaves into a pile. Then I lifted Lucky out of the pouch and cradled him for a minute in my hands. I looked back at Annie and she smiled. I set Lucky down on top of the leaves and stroked his tiny black head.
“Good-bye, Lucky,” I whispered.
I walked back to Annie. My stomach felt hollow. As we started back down the slope to the trail, Lucky began to cry.
Grandmother and Sarah were sitting on a blanket in the sun. Sarah was stitching blue beads onto the toe of a moccasin. Beside her, Grandmother clicked away with her knitting needles. She gave me a searching look. I glanced away, my eyes pricking with tears.
When we were ready to go, Sarah hugged me. Annie stood on the shore and waved good-bye.
Grandmother and I paddled across the lake in silence. I felt sick when I looked at the empty washtub. For a while, I concentrated on the line of silver water trailing from my paddle. Tiredness seeped through me. I looked up and watched our cabin get closer and closer with each stroke. Then my heart gave a sudden jump.
Papa was back.
He stood at the edge of the lake, his face dark with anger. The canoe bumped against the shore. My heart thumped. I stared down at my hands.
“Where on earth have you been?” he said coldly.
“The Indian village,” said Grandmother briskly. “I have had a most interesting afternoon.”
Papa opened and shut his mouth. For a second, he seemed speechless. Then he frowned again. “You could have tipped the canoe ...”
“Nonsense,” said Grandmother. “There was never any question of us tipping. Ellie is perfectly capable.”
She leaned over and thumped Papa’s leg with her cane. “Stop gaping and help me. And don’t drop my knitting in the water.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
Grandmother rearranged her coat and bonnet when she was safely on the ground. She gripped my arm. “Help me to the cabin, Ellie.”
I walked beside Grandmother, grinning. I looked back at Papa. He stood beside the canoe, watching us with a look of bewilderment on his face.
Grandmother slept through supper. I told Papa and Max about Lucky. Max groaned to think that he had missed it. He had spent a long couple of days carrying buckets of nails and boards for the men at the Robertsons’.
“What will the mother fox do?” I asked Papa.
Papa shook his head. “It’s hard to say. There will be a lot of human scent on that little fox.”
My heart sank. Papa and Max went out to the field to finish their burning. I did my evening chores. I felt sick when I thought about Lucky. It was almost dark when I got back to the cabin.
I opened the door. Grandmother lay in a black crumpled heap beside the fireplace, her cane on the floor beside her.
“Grandmother has had a stroke,” said Papa.
Max and Papa and I stood by the road, waving good-bye to the doctor. He had stayed with Grandmother all night. His wagon rumbled out of sight around a bend.
“Is she going to die?” said Max.
“No,” said Papa. “But she is going to need a lot of rest for a long time.”
I fought back a sick feeling in my stomach. “Did going to the Indian village make her have the stroke?” I whispered.
“No,” said Papa. “The long trip from England was hard on Grandmother. She hasn’t been feeling well since she got here, but she didn’t want you to know.”
I thought about all the times when Grandmother had gripped my arm on our walks. I remembered my impatience when she walked too slowly or we had to be quiet because she was resting.
Grandmother stayed in bed for two weeks. Her hands shook when she sipped her mug of hot tea or soup. When she talked, her words sometimes ran together. Papa said the stroke had paralyzed part of her face. It might or might not get better.
Most of the time, Grandmother slept. On her good days, when it was easy for her to talk, she told me stories about my mother. Sometimes Max and Papa listened too, but I liked it best when it was just Grandmother and me. In the afternoons, she liked to have the bedroom door open. “I want to listen to Ellie spin,” she said.
I waited for Grandmother to get well. One warm morning in late June, she got out of bed. “I am going to go for a walk with Ellie,” she said.
We walked only as far as the lake. Tap tap tap went Grandmother’s cane. She squeezed my arm tightly. I spread a quilt out on the grass. We sat in the sun and watched a family of ducks glide across the blue water.
“I am not going back to England in the fall,” said Grandmother suddenly. “The long trip across the ocean would be too much for me.”
Since Grandmother’s stroke, my fear of going to England had seemed so far away. I had almost forgotten that Grandmother would be leaving us. But at the same time, I felt a prickle of disappointment. I loved the cozy winter nights that Papa and Max and I spent together. Everything would change with Grandmother here.
“Will you mind the winter here awfully?” I said.
“Oh, I won’t stay in the backwoods,” said Grandmother, and she sounded like her old self. “My friend Dorothy tried to convince me to spend the winter with her in Toronto. I will take her up on the offer.”
I nodded. I had heard Papa tell Mr. McDougall that he would feel better if Grandmother were closer to doctors and a hospital.
“But I will stay here while the weather is warm,” said Grandmother. “And one day you will come to Toronto to visit me.”
“I would love that,” I said.
After a while, Grandmother’s head nodded. I found a patch of late strawberries hidden in the long grass and filled my apron. When Grandmother woke, I joined her on the quilt. We sat in the sun and ate berries until we were full.
I didn’t go back to the Indian village until the next week. Papa started to protest when I asked to take the canoe, but Grandmother silenced him with one of her looks.
When I got to the village, Annie grabbed my arm. Her black eyes sparkled. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”
We ran along the trail through the forest and climbed up the grassy slope.
“Shh,” said Annie. She stopped and frowned, her head tilted. Then she smiled. She pulled me down onto the ground, and we crawled behind the bushes.
I peered through the green leaves and sucked in my breath. A fox lay on her side in front of the den. A mass of fuzzy brown bodies tumbled around her. One ... two ... three ... four ... I counted five baby foxes, playing in the sun.
I scanned the area around the den, my heart thudding.
Suddenly a sixth baby fox sprang out of the long grass. It pounced on the mother fox’s tail. She turned her head lazily and gave it a gentle swat.
The baby fox’s glossy black coat gleamed in the sunlight. Lucky! A tingle ran up my back.
“She sometimes feeds them mice now,” whispered Annie. “I’ve seen her. And once she brought a rabbit.”
I nodded. Soon Lucky would learn how to hunt on his own. I looked at his bright black eyes and his sturdy body. He would be a good hunter.
After a long time, Annie and I went back to the Indian village. We ran all the way. Our moccasins flew over the trail. I felt like I could run forever. I couldn’t wait to get home
to tell Grandmother about Lucky.
Author’s Note
In 1838, a young girl like Ellie would have called her friend Annie an Indian; however, a child today would more likely use the name First Nations. Just like Europe is made up of different people speaking different languages, North America is the home to many aboriginal nations, each with their own language and customs. Annie’s family belonged to the Ojibway Nation (also called Chippewa), a tribe who inhabit the area of the northern Great Lakes.
The Ojibway lived in harmony with nature, following the patterns of the seasons. Spring was maple syrup season, summer was a busy time for growing and gathering plants and autumn brought the wild rice harvest. By the time of the Freezing Moon (November), families had moved to their winter villages where the men hunted and fished and the women kept busy with many jobs, including making baskets and mending clothes. Birch bark from the northern forests was an important resource for the Ojibway, and was used for making baskets, boxes, dishes and canoes.
A primary schoolteacher and writer, Becky Citra lives on a ranch in Bridge Lake, British Columbia, where horses, bears and coyotes abound and where many of the chores have not changed since Ellie’s day. In addition to the Max and Ellie stories, Becky is also the author of Dog Days (Orca, 2003) and Jeremy and the Enchanted Theater (Orca, 2004).
Hanne Lore Koehler created the cover and interior illustrations for Strawberry Moon in watercolour. Hanne Lore has illustrated two other Orca Young Readers: Five Stars for Emily and Rescue Pup. She lives in Cambridge, Ontario.