by Robin Moore
Maggie tried to raise her arms but found she could not. She flexed her feet but found they were bound as well. Firefly, too, was having trouble moving. They struggled harder, but they were wrapped tightly in the hide. Then Maggie realized what had happened: In the terrible cold, the elk hide had frozen solid around them, holding them tight like a sheath of iron.
The noise they had made struggling inside the hide had attracted the attention of the wolves. The animals hunched their backs and growled. When a few of the bolder ones began to venture toward them, Maggie realized the hungry wolves might think the hide was a wounded elk. She held as still as she could.
Then she heard the scratching of the wolves' claws on the hide and heard them growling as they used their teeth to pull the scrappy pieces of meat off the outside of the skin. One of the wolves cautiously leaped on top of the roll and Maggie could feel its weight on her legs. Then she heard a tearing sound. They were ripping through the hide around their legs!
All at once, Firefly began singing a loud chant. Maggie began singing a church hymn. The noise frightened the wolves and they retreated, dancing away a few steps through the snow. Maggie noticed that one of the bigger animals had something in its mouth. The wolf dropped it on the ground in front of him and the other wolves made a grab for it. But the large wolf picked it up and trotted off into the woods. Maggie had seen what it was: one of Firefly's moccasins. The wolves must have torn through the hide and pulled the moccasin off his foot. But the singing had scared them away, for the moment.
Maggie felt a draft of cold air coming up her legs from the hole in the hide.
They sang as loudly as they could and the wolves seemed to back off, clustering around the meat on the rock and watching with glowing eyes.
Then Maggie heard a rifle shot out across the water. She knew Cornstalk must be signaling. The wolves stood still. The shot had frightened them but not enough to run them off. Would they stay and make a stand over the meat?
Then Maggie heard Cornstalk's voice shouting. Maggie craned her neck and could see the canoe standing in the shallows. She was surprised that Firefly didn't answer. When she turned to look at him, he appeared to be asleep. He had stopped singing.
"Frenchgirl, can you hear me?" Maggie shouted.
"Where are you?" Frenchgirl shouted back.
"We're on the ground, by the big rock with the meat on it."
Frenchgirl shouted, "We can see the wolves. Don't worry about the meat, Redwing. Cornstalk has his rifle. Just make a run for the canoe, the two of you."
"We can't move. We're frozen into this hide."
Maggie heard Cornstalk and Frenchgirl talking in the canoe.
"All right," Frenchgirl said at last. "Get ready. We are coming in."
Maggie watched as Frenchgirl lit up a torch from a pine knot. They stepped ashore. Maggie could see that Frenchgirl held the torch in one hand and her short-handled axe in the other. Cornstalk held the rifle ready as they slipped across the snow between Maggie and the wolves. Maggie knew that at any moment the wolves might try to rush them. She knew that there would be no way she could help fight them off. But the wolves simply stood their ground. Frenchgirl slipped up and used her knife to saw through the hide.
The wolves watched with glowing eyes.
"If you feel the blade of the knife come near you, tell me," Frenchgirl breathed.
It took a long time to saw through the layers of thick frozen hide and to peel it back from their bodies. Maggie sat up and looked at the bottom of the elk hide. It had been chewed to pieces and was drenched with blood.
"Don't look down there," Frenchgirl said sharply.
But it was too late. Maggie had already seen it. She caught a glimpse of Firefly's exposed ankle in the moonlight. She saw the white bone and sinew and the blood that looked black on the snow. She knew the large wolf picked it up and trotted off into the woods. Maggie had seen what it was: one of Firefly's moccasins. The wolves must have torn through the hide and pulled the moccasin off his foot. But the singing had scared them away, for the moment.
Maggie felt a draft of cold air coming up her legs from the hole in the hide.
They sang as loudly as they could and the wolves seemed to back off, clustering around the meat on the rock and watching with glowing eyes.
Then Maggie heard a rifle shot out across the water. She knew Cornstalk must be signaling. The wolves stood still. The shot had frightened them but not enough to run them off. Would they stay and make a stand over the meat?
Then Maggie heard Cornstalk's voice shouting. Maggie craned her neck and could see the canoe standing in the shallows. She was surprised that Firefly didn't answer. When she turned to look at him, he appeared to be asleep. He had stopped singing.
"Frenchgirl, can you hear me?" Maggie shouted.
"Where are you?" Frenchgirl shouted back.
"We're on the ground, by the big rock with the meat on it."
Frenchgirl shouted, "We can see the wolves. Don't worry about the meat, Redwing. Cornstalk has his rifle. Just make a run for the canoe, the two of you."
"We can't move. We're frozen into this hide."
Maggie heard Cornstalk and Frenchgirl talking in the canoe.
"All right," Frenchgirl said at last. "Get ready. We are coming in."
Maggie watched as Frenchgirl lit up a torch from a pine knot. They stepped ashore. Maggie could see that Frenchgirl held the torch in one hand and her short-handled axe in the other. Cornstalk held the rifle ready as they slipped across the snow between Maggie and the wolves. Maggie knew that at any moment the wolves might try to rush them. She knew that there would be no way she could help fight them off. But the wolves simply stood their ground. Frenchgirl slipped up and used her knife to saw through the hide.
The wolves watched with glowing eyes.
"If you feel the blade of the knife come near you, tell me," Frenchgirl breathed.
It took a long time to saw through the layers of thick frozen hide and to peel it back from their bodies. Maggie sat up and looked at the bottom of the elk hide. It had been chewed to pieces and was drenched with blood.
"Don't look down there," Frenchgirl said sharply.
But it was too late. Maggie had already seen it. She caught a glimpse of Firefly's exposed ankle in the moonlight. She saw the white bone and sinew and the blood that looked black on the snow. She knew that when the wolf had carried away Firefly's moccasin, his foot had been inside it.
"He's lost a lot of blood," Frenchgirl said simply. She was using a rawhide thong to tie off the wound, stanching the flow of lifeblood.
The wolves did not fight. As Cornstalk stood staring them down with his rifle, Maggie and Frenchgirl carried Firefly to the canoe. It was hard work getting his limp body into the craft. Frenchgirl called to Cornstalk, and he backed down away from the cluster of wolves and stepped into the canoe. The wolves turned back to their meat.
Maggie didn't remember much about the rest of the night. Somehow they must have made the paddle back to the island and gotten Firefly up into their makeshift shelter. She felt very tired that night but couldn't sleep. She sat up by the dying fire, holding her husband's head in her lap, listening to his breathing ebb and flow. Sometimes it sounded like the water coming in.
The next morning Frenchgirl told Maggie:
"We will leave now, head back to the village. We will have to leave the meat behind so my brother has room to lie down in the canoe. You will take his place at the paddle. It will be a hard trip back. The water is already freezing in some of the smaller streams. We will have a lot to carry over the portages. Can you do it?"
Maggie looked at Firefly sleeping, wrapped up in blankets by the fire.
It was strange, Maggie thought, to think back on how she had planned to steal the canoe and slip away, abandoning these people in the deep watery wilderness. There was a part of her that still wanted to do that; to be free and to point herself southwest, like the needle of a compass, steering true, toward Frann
y and the new life.
But now, looking down at Firefly's face, she knew all that really mattered was that this sweet young man should stay alive. Everything else fell into the background.
"What do you say, Redwing?" Frenchgirl was asking. "Are you with us?"
Maggie stooped and tucked the blanket up around Firefly's chin.
"Yes," she said simply. "I'm with you."
Frenchgirl nodded, her eyes locked with Maggie's. For a moment, Maggie wondered how much Frenchgirl suspected about her real reasons for agreeing to come on this trip.
"Thank you," said Frenchgirl. "I knew you were a Seneca."
Chapter Ten
The return trip was astonishingly difficult. They paddled as long as the daylight would allow and made quick camps at night, falling into their blankets exhausted and waking every few hours to check Firefly’s breathing.
To make matters worse, they began to run out of food. They had been forced to leave most of the dried meat behind on the island, and the barren landscape offered them nothing for their hunger.
On the morning of the third day, Cornstalk took his rifle and set out on foot along the riverbank, in search of rabbits of wild turkeys, or anything that moved and could be eaten.
That morning, as Maggie and Frenchgirl were changing the bandages around his severed ankle, Firefly opened his eyes and gave them what seemed to be a smile. Then he closed his eyes and faded away, and he was gone.
Suddenly Maggie was back in Philadelphia, in the old house on Spruce Street, the morning her mother died of the fever. It was like that now, with death standing close by, almost touching her shoulder.
Maggie closed her eyes to clear her head.
“What do the old people say?” Maggie asked Frenchgirl. “Where does a Seneca go when he dies?”
“To the Hereafter,” Frenchgirl said softly, “There is no danger or pain there. When a Seneca goes there, he is reunited with his ancestors and there is rejoicing.”
Maggie thought about that for a moment and asked, as a child might, “Is he there now?”
Frenchgirl shook her head. “No. The old people say that it takes a year for the soul to make its journey to the other world.
In the meantime, we must make sure that Firefly has all that he needs on his journey. We will wrap him up in blankets and take him back to the village, where we can watch over him.”
Maggie nodded. “We’ll bury him there, then?”
“No,” Frenchgirl said, “we won’t close him up in the ground. We will build a scaffold in the branches of a tree. We’ll dress my brother in the best clothing we can find and equip him with a hatchet and a skinning knife and a pipe and some tobacco.
"Then we'll place him on the platform where the sun can shine on his face and the winds and rain can cleanse him. We must go to the burial scaffold each night and light a fire so he'll have some light in the darkness and so he won't be afraid. This would normally be the wife's job. But if you feel you can't do this, I will do it for you."
Maggie shook her head. "No, I will do it."
Just then they heard a shout down by the river-bank. It was Cornstalk, grinning as he climbed the embankment, carrying two limp gray squirrels by the tails.
Frenchgirl rose and walked with quick steps down to the riverbank, to tell Cornstalk that his partner had run on ahead.
Back at the village, Maggie and Frenchgirl prepared the burial rack. The women from the clan did what they could to ease the grief. It was good to have someone to mourn with.
In the evenings, after the day's work was done, Maggie would make her way out to the tree where Firefly lay. This became a simple ritual for her. Firefly's tree was set out from the village a distance, on the margin of a cornfield down by the river. Each night she would bring dry wood and her flint and steel to the circle of rocks that lay at the base of the tree. There she would strike a spark and make a fire.
It was at this time, at the end of each day, that Maggie felt most empty and alone inside. Everything, even the sight of fire, made her sad. She told herself that if she had only insisted that they make a fire that night, Firefly might still be alive. The fire would have kept the wolves away. But she hadn't, and it didn't, and she deeply regretted that now.
One night, late in winter, she was sitting by the fire at Firefly's tree when she saw something moving out across the snow, perhaps a hundred yards away. Even though it was dark, the starlight and the snow made it easy to see the figure. Maggie watched curiously. Who could be out at this time of night in this cold weather?
Whoever it was, was poking around with a long stick down by the garbage dumps. This is where the village people came to heap all their trash: broken pottery and torn clothing, the rotted and frozen carcasses of meat, and vegetables that had gone bad. Even in cold weather, a powerful stench came up from that area. The village dogs ran wild down there. But as Maggie watched, the ragged figure pointed its staff and the dogs stepped back and fell silent. Maggie watched until she couldn't see the figure anymore.
On several other nights, she caught glimpses of this mysterious person, picking through the dumps. One night, after Maggie returned, she asked Frenchgirl about it.
"Ah," Frenchgirl said, "that is the Ragpicker. She is an old woman who lives in the thicket down by the garbage heap."
"Why do you call her that?"
"She lives by picking through the garbage, wearing the clothes and eating the food that someone else has thrown away."
"But why? The other old people in the village have all they need to eat and wear; they have a place to live. I can see that with my own eyes."
"Yes," Frenchgirl said, "what you say is true. And I suppose she could claim her right if that is what she wanted. But she does not. She prefers to live on garbage rather than ask for another's help."
"But her family—"
"She has no family. At least not in this village. No one knows where she came from. Some of the women say that she is a witch and she was banished from her own village."
"A witch?"
"Well, one evening, a child died mysteriously. It was a child who had been playing down by the dump. The parents were sure that the Ragpicker had killed the little girl. So a knot of people went down there next morning, to hunt her down and kill her. But she had vanished. They could find no sign of her. They searched for weeks but they never found her hut or even her tracks. Very mysterious. People have caught glimpses of her, now and then, but no one has ever seen her up close. Some say she has magical powers, but I don't know."
Maggie remembered how she had seen the old woman point her staff at the dogs, how they had fallen silent and backed away.
One night, leaving the burial fire of her husband, Maggie walked out across the snow, down to the dump. It was a clear, cold night and she could easily make out tracks in the snow. There were many tracks of people who came during the day to cast their offal into the stinking piles. But there was one set of tracks—small moccasin prints with sharply pointed toes—that seemed to lead off into another direction, into the thicket away from the village.
Maggie crept into the forest of thin saplings. There was a rude path that wound down through the thicket beside a stream that ran gurgling through the snow. Maggie smelled wood smoke. Moving as slowly as she could, she urged herself on through the trees, numbed by fear and driven by an unexplainable urge to find out about this mystery.
Then, up ahead, Maggie saw a tiny flickering fire. There was no sign of the old woman but Maggie could make out the outlines of the hut. It was a small, conical dwelling, made from a framework of branches, piled high with hides and rags and an accumulation of years of filth and dirt. The roof of the hut was overgrown with roots and dead vines that poked up through the snow. The camp smelled like rotted garbage.
Then Maggie saw the Ragpicker. She emerged from the hut carrying an armful of small objects. The old woman set her bundles on a blanket by the fire.
In the firelight, Maggie could see the old woma
n clearly. She was hideous: dressed head to foot in layers of filthy and ragged clothing, a mixture of hides and moth-eaten wool. Her hair was black as the night, but streaked with gray and white. On her feet were misshapen moccasins that came to a sharp point at the toe. The only bits of her skin exposed to the light were her hands, which looked like the gnarled claws of a bird. Her face was as creased and wrinkled as an apple left to sour on the tree. Her eyes picked up the firelight like a wild animal's.
Maggie watched as this fantastical woman fumbled through her bundles. She took out seven cornhusk dolls, like the ones the little girls in the village played with. Each doll was about as long as the woman's forearm. They had no faces but were dressed carefully in clothing made from scraps of hide and cloth that had come from the dump.
Maggie watched, fascinated, as the Ragpicker boiled some corn soup in a pot on the fire, then spooned out a small portion to each doll, serving them in bowls made from broken pieces of crockery. The old woman muttered and clucked lovingly to each doll as she used her horn spoon to lift the corn soup to their featureless faces, then wiped their "mouths" clean with a bit of filthy rag.
After the old woman had fed her family of dolls, she took each one to her withered breast and nursed it, singing a pretty sort of lullaby in an old cracked voice. Then the woman carried her tiny family inside and slid the door flap closed.
Maggie backed out of the thicket, trying to wipe her tracks out with a branch. Surely the woman would know she had been there. She felt as though she had taken an awful chance but that, on some deep and unexplainable level, it had been worth it.
When she arrived at the cabin late that night, Frenchgirl helped her out of her frozen clothing.
"I was worried for you," she said. "Where have you been all this time?"