How was my visit with my father? I didn’t say anything about it when I got home last night. My mother didn’t press me. But I know what she is wondering. How did it go? What happened? Am I going back to see him again.
Everything about the previous day comes back in my mind like floodwater bursting through a dam. All my efforts have failed at trying to turn my confused thoughts to something else.
My mother is still looking at me. Perhaps I should answer those unasked questions of hers. Perhaps I would—if I knew the answers myself.
So, instead of saying anything about the battle going on in my mind, I pick up my chunkey stick and twirl it between my fingers.
“I am going down to the town house,” I say. I keep my voice light.
My mother smiles at that. I know what she is thinking.
Good. He is not going back to his father.
Am I going to go back and see him again? I am not sure about that. The thoughts in my head are like a whirlwind. The only thing I can decide now is that I need to do something—anything. Then it comes to me. Chunkey. That’s it! A game with my friends is just what I need to calm the storm in my mind.
“My friends Yugi and Ugama will be waiting for me there. We are going to play.”
Despite my inner turmoil, I’ve managed to keep my face calm. As a result, my mother still looks happy and relieved.
“Come home when you are hungry,” she says. “If you wish to bring your friends, they will be welcome. There will be plenty of food.”
“Wado,” I call back over my shoulder as I trot down the road.
CHAPTER 9
At the Town House
I am standing partway behind a big sassafras tree that rises out of an area of woods and brush at the edge of the field by the town house. I am not moving and because I am so well concealed I am sure no one has seen me.
Our town house is the most important building in Willstown. It is made of logs, like our other structures, but it is larger. In the old days such town houses always stood in the center of our villages, although then they had lower log walls with no windows and much taller roofs that were thatched with bundles of grass.
Near the town house is the ball field where our town teams play stickball against each other or teams from other villages. Those ball games are always exciting. First one side and then the other gains the ball with their double rackets, catching it in the leather webbing fastened to the end of their ball sticks. Then they try to throw or carry the ball between the standing poles that mark the goals at each side of the field, passing it back and forth, striking at one another with their sticks, blocking and tackling, attempting to trip their opponents. Only war is fiercer than our stickball games. Waheh!
Stickball is a game that everyone loves. The women play it as well as the men—although most men are not foolish enough to try to play the game against our Tsalagi women. Not unless they wish to lose much blood and also get their heads broken. There is no way I would ever play stickball against a group of Tsalagi women! I value my life too much. Our women are even fiercer than the men when they play stickball.
But I do enjoy playing it with other boys or even against the grown men. I have been told by some of the men that I am fairly good at playing stickball. My own two ball sticks hang on the wall above my bed. They were made by Old Turkey, the best stick maker in our town, if not the whole of our Tsalagi nation.
“My sticks have eyes,” he says. “They always see the ball. All you have to do is listen to what they tell you and follow their directions.”
Stickball, though, is not a game that you play every day. You need larger teams to play it. Also when a game of stickball is played, everyone in the village wants to be able to watch it. And most days there are other things that need doing. So special occasions such as festivals are when the game is played or when a team from another village is coming to challenge.
Chunkey is different. It is always easy to find someone to play chunkey with. All you need are two people with their chunkey sticks and one chunkey stone. And, of course, the ground on which to play the game. Everyone who plays chunkey has their own pole. We make our poles ourselves, smoothing out a long stick and shaping it until it resembles a long spear. However, unlike a spear, a chunkey pole’s two ends are flattened and slightly upturned.
We do not have our own chunkey stones. Those stones belong to the town. Every town has its own stones. They are kept next to the town house. The only time they would ever be removed would be if—as has happened before—the village was forced to move. Then our chunkey stones move with us. No one knows who moves them. Some say that the stones move themselves. Others say that certain elders are secretly tasked with taking care that they are brought with us. Whatever the case may be, as soon as a new town house is erected and a chunkey field has been made, within a few days those stones appear piled near the town house.
Chunkey stones are as round as wagon wheels, but much smaller. They are all two fingers broad on their edges and just the right size to pick up and then roll in an underhand motion. Our town’s chunkey stones are very old. No one knows how old they are or who made them, though it is said that our great-great-grandparents played with them when they were young. The pale stone they were carved from is hard, so it must have taken someone who was very determined a long time to make them.
I look out through the screen of leaves at the five boys of around my age who are among my best friends. Usually I would be glad to see them. Just as they would be pleased to have me join them. But now I am uncertain how I will be received. I am sure that, like everyone else, they have heard about my visit with my father. That is the way gossip is. Even a fire in a field of dry grass cannot spread faster. I was seen by Tall Man, Galuloi’s father. And then by that family in the wagon.
What do my friends think of me now? Will they say anything to me about it? And if they do, how will I answer? That storm in my head is turning into a tornado.
Galuloi, the tallest of the boys, is preparing the ground on which the game will be played. It is a long flat area on the other side of the town house from the ball field. It is marked off for chunkey, kept clear of all stones and vegetation, and covered with fine sand so that the poles will glide along it easily. With a smooth branch, Galuloi is smoothing out the white sand and making the surface as clean as a field covered with new snow. Galuloi is not as skinny as I am, but he is taller than me. That is why he was given the nickname of Sky.
Ugama, Soup, is helping him. Ugama, the shortest and roundest of us all, is always by Galuloi’s side. The two of them are cousins and belong to the same clan. When Ugama takes his stance and then sprints forward before hurling his pole to glide it across the sand, his feet move so fast they are a blur. Because he runs so fast, he cannot stop himself easily and so always throws himself off to the side of the pit and goes rolling for a ways before stopping.
That always makes us laugh, but not that hard. When Ugama makes one of those awkward casts of his pole, it often comes to a stop right against the stone and he wins.
Equgugu, Big Owl, is rolling the chunkey stone that has been chosen for today’s game back and forth between himself and his cousin, Gayusoli. Gayusoli, whose nickname means Nose, always seems to be the keenest and smartest of us. As usual, he is not doing anything much other than watching the other. Yugi, whose nickname means Nail, is the last of my friends who is here. He is busy rubbing his chunkey pole with bear oil from the bottle he keeps in his pouch, hoping that bear oil will help him make nothing but winning throws. As if that would ever happen when I was competing with him! I like Yugi the best of my friends, even though he always jokes about winning all of my marbles. Which will never happen.
Galuloi, Ugama, Equgugu, Gayusoli, Yugi. Five of my best friends.
But one of my best friends is not here. Normally there would be seven of us, counting myself.
Udagehi, Baby, is missing. He has a badl
y twisted ankle. He is the best hunter among us, but while hunting three days ago he had a bad fall. I heard about it when I was at the trading post picking up sugar for my mother. His ankle is not broken, but it is swollen so badly that he cannot leave his mother’s house. It will be many days before he can walk without a stick and weeks before he can run.
Some believe that he brought it upon himself. I heard that said at the trading post, by one of the old men.
“That boy bragged so much about his hunting,” the old man said. “He did not do the proper things when he brought back game. He did not give proper thanks. Awi Usdi, the little white deer who is the chief of all the animal people, heard that boy bragging. It was Awi Usdi who sent him that misfortune to teach him a lesson in respect.”
Several people at the trading post agreed with the old man’s words.
“You are probably right,” my mother said. And people nodded their heads in agreement. Every Tsalagi knows that any hunter who brags and forgets to give thanks to the spirits of the animals he catches may find himself punished by Awi Usdi. And a sprained ankle is the lightest punishment that might be given. If a hunter continues to behave that way, the little white deer will send him rheumatism so that he cannot hold a bow or a gun.
However, I also heard it whispered by some people that there is another reason for my friend’s injury.
I have a way of walking very quietly and not being noticed right away whenever I go somewhere. I stand back to observe and listen before joining in any group. I have always been that way. So I have heard things said before such gossipers have noted my presence and changed their topic of conversation.
“These accidents,” another old man at the trading post whispered to his friend, “have become more common since Sequoyah came back to our nation. It makes one wonder about those markings of his. Maybe they are more than just crazy behavior. Maybe they are bad medicine, sorcery.”
That was troubling. But it was not as troubling as what I heard that old man’s friend whisper in response.
“Sorcery? Ah, that is even worse than selling parts of our Tsalagi homeland to the Aniyonega. There is only one penalty for that kind of black magic. Death!”
Those remarks made me feel sick in my stomach.
My friends have not yet started playing. That is good. It may mean that they are still just getting ready. Everyone has their own little private songs or chants that they have learned, their little rituals to help them win. Or it may be that they are waiting for me to arrive before they start. If so, that would be very good.
I step out from behind the tree. As soon as I do so, Yugi’s head turns in my direction and a smile comes on to his face. Not a frown, not a look of fright.
Good.
“Osiyo, oginali,” I call out to him. Hello, my friend.
“Osiyo, Uwaholi,” he calls back to me.
Now all of them have turned my way. As if they have been expecting me. That, too, is good. Though I do notice something a little sour in the expression on Gayusoli’s face, almost as if he is smelling something bad with that long nose of his.
“How are you all?” I ask as I walk toward them.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
And so on. Which is not bad, though I notice that only Yugi says not Osda, but Osdadu. That emphasis on the end of his phrase meaning “really fine” is a much more friendly way to respond.
I am being too sensitive.
Yugi gives me a friendly push on my shoulder. “So,” he says, “are you ready to lose all your clothing today?”
He is referring to the fact that wagers are often placed on games of chunkey and that people may not just lose their earrings and bracelets, but even their shirts and shoes if they are not that good at sliding their chunkey pole next to the stone.
“Hah,” I say as we grasp each other’s wrists in a friendly handshake. “Maybe you are the one who will return home naked today.”
Of course that will not happen to either of us. For winnings in our friendly chunkey games we just use small painted sticks, each of us with a dozen or so to bet on the outcome of our contests.
“Who will play first?” Yugi asks.
Equgugu steps forward. “I challenge Ugama,” he says. “Unless he is tired of always losing to me?”
“Hah,” Ugama says. “It is the other way around. It is always your turn to lose to me!”
Yugi chuckles. “It is decided, then. Ugama and Equgugu.”
The two friends face each other, each with his right hand behind his back.
“Odds or evens?” Yugi asks Ugama.
“Odds,” Ugama says.
Yugi begins to count out loud. “Sa, ta . . .”
At the count of four, the two will hold out their right hands. If the total of fingers shown is an odd number then Ugama will be the one to roll the stone.
“. . . tso, nu!”
The two thrust their hands forward.
Ugama has chosen to hold out three fingers and Equgugu one. A total of four.
“You see,” Equgugu says, “my luck is still better than yours.”
“Hah,” Ugama replies. “This just means I will begin winning your sticks that much faster.”
Equgugu, who is the strongest of us all, hefts the heavy chunkey stone and then rolls it as easily as if it were a white man’s coin. It travels a long way down the middle of the playing ground, almost to the very end of the field before it falls over.
“Uu! Ahhey!” Yugi shouts. I agree.
It’s a very good roll, a challenging one. It will take a strong throw for Ugama to send his pole gliding across the field that far. But if the throw is too hard, then his pole will continue on beyond the space marked out for the field of play. An automatic disqualification.
Ugama, though, does not appear worried at all about how difficult this might be. He takes a swift run, his feet pounding the ground. Then he casts his pole and does his usual roll. But this time instead of sprawling out at the end he actually comes up running on his feet. Impressive! Not only that, he continues running—along the edge of the playing field—and so not interfering with his throw.
“Go,” he shouts at his pole as he follows it. “Go straight!”
And his pole does just that, right at the chunkey stone where it stops—Click!—just as its tip lightly strikes the very middle of the stone.
I am glad I am not playing against Ugama. That throw is one of the best I have ever seen anyone make! It’s so good that Equgugu is standing with his eyes as wide as the night bird he is named after. He can hardly believe it. He already feels beaten.
Sure enough, when he casts his own pole it skids off to the left and goes right out of the field of play.
As Ugama collects the three sticks they’d wagered on their contest, Galuloi steps forward with the chunkey stone he’s chosen. He’s next in line to play against the winner. Since I arrived late, I will be last. I sit down and lean back against the wall of the town house.
With the tip of my pole, I begin scratching patterns in the dirt. Maybe this time I can make something that looks like an eagle.
Someone sits down next to me.
“It is sad about my friend Udagehi, is it not?” Gayusoli says, leaning his shoulder against mine in a way that does not feel friendly. Also, the way he spoke those words did not make them sound like a question. But I know that I should answer him.
“Yes,” I say. “That is true.”
“Is it not also true that such accidents have been happening more often?” Gayusoli’s tone has become accusatory.
“I don’t know about that,” I say, still moving the tip of my stick in the dirt.
“Perhaps you do,” Gayusoli says. “Perhaps you and your father speak about such things when you visit him.”
I don’t know how to answer something like that. When someone says bad
things about you or your family, there is no reply that you may make to change their mind. That is what my mother often says. I trust her wisdom. The best one can do is to walk away.
But I do not want to walk away. Nor do I want to argue. I came here to get away from the confusion in my mind. I came here to play chunkey with my friends. I keep scraping the tip of my pole into the ground, digging it in hard as I do so.
“Tlahhuh!” Gayusoli suddenly shouts. He leaps up, trying to back away from me so fast that he falls on his bottom. “No!” he shouts again, his face twisted with fright as he pushes himself farther backward with his hands and feet.
The others all turn to see what is wrong.
Gayusoli is holding both of his hands toward me as if to ward me away, as he makes signs against bad magic with his fingers. His eyes are wild.
“Those, those marks,” he stammers. “Look, there on the ground. Uwohali is trying to cast a spell on me!” He scrambles to his feet and runs over to the safety of his other friends who have stopped what they were doing to stare—not at me, but at the red earth in front of me.
I stand up and look down. Just as Gayusoli says, I have made marks there. I dug them so deeply with the end of my pole into the red earth that they are easy to see. I’ve made them without thinking. But they are not sorcery. They are just those foolish signs that were inked on the back of my sister’s dolls.
I look at my friends who are all still staring my way. Galuloi has dropped the chunkey stone he was about to roll. Ugama is holding his chunkey stick in front of him like a spear. Their expressions range from the terror on Gayusoli’s face to the questioning look worn by my friend—if he still is my friend—Yugi. Yugi is rubbing his hands together as he always does when something has upset him. He looks almost like a raccoon washing its food.
What can I say? I have no words for this moment.
With my right foot, I wipe out those designs in the dirt. Then, without a word, I turn and walk away.
Talking Leaves Page 6