"Granddaughter is nuxkwis. Nuxkwis, you don't know how to read, but you're learning our language well. From this time forward, no English."
"Yes. I mean, heh-heh, Muxomsa. But ... what about talking to Mrs. Stewart? She doesn't speak your language."
"No English. Mrs. Stewart was a mistake," he says flatly. "She is an angry, bitter woman who likes to eat but doesn't like to work. I gave her as a second wife to Tamaqua, but he tells me she's a hateful wife."
"That's not hate, it's grief. It was you who gave the order for Sammy to be killed."
"Who?"
"Her baby!"
"Her baby," he repeats softly. "Yes, I remember Sammy. We had to hurry, and she was walking too slowly."
"We could have taken turns carrying Sammy. He was a hungry, tired baby who didn't understand what was happening. Mrs. Stewart has never forgiven you, and you forgot all about him!"
That day Sammy died rushes back to me. I remember the terror, the horror, and the grief as though he'd been murdered just that morning. What I remember most was my still silence, so afraid of doing or saying anything that might have made them angry enough to kill me. The meek little lamb. And now here I am scolding Grandfather as though he's family.
"You're so impatient, and you always expect the worst," I say.
"You're right," he replies softly.
In Fairfield I'd complain to my Aunt Orpah after my frequent quarrels with Dougal. "He's so lazy," I would shout, stamping my foot on her kitchen floor, "because he's always been the favorite."
"That's the trouble with families," she'd say, handing me a molasses cookie. "They're the people we know best, so we always think we know better."
I haven't scolded my family in months, I think in shock, not since the dead of winter. And why is that? Because I don't know them anymore.
Back home journeymen portrait painters travel from town to town, with canvases where the hair, hats, and clothes are already painted in. Only the faces are blank, nothing but bare cloth. The customer pays for his face, or the face of a loved one, to be painted on the canvas. Sometimes a favorite pet-a horse, cat, dog, or bird-is added for a personal touch and an extra payment.
The Campbells are like those faceless portraits. I remember our clothes, our livestock, and our gray and calico barn cats. But the faces of my parents, Dougal, Aunt Orpah, and Grandfather Campbell are a blur. I don't remember their features anymore.
I watch Grandfather stir the fire. He was afraid, I realize. He was afraid we would die if we didn't reach the Cuyahoga before the first snow. Sammy Stewart was a risk he couldn't afford to take.
He's my family, I think in amazement-along with Hepte, White Eyes, and Chickadee. These are the people I know best.
"I have given Mrs. Stewart a chance for more children and still she's angry. Four muskets." He shakes his head. "Not four muskets. Two. Maybe three. She would be happier with her own kind?"
"Of course."
"Good. Go to sleep."
"What about muskets?"
"Go to sleep, Nuxkwis. No more English."
As I doze off thinking about the muskets, I figure it out.
He wants to trade Mrs. Stewart to Sequin for muskets.
10. Mrs. Stewart
ABOUT A MONTH AFTER OUR TRIP TO SEQUIN'S, spring weather empties the cave. A war party leaves to explore the riverbanks, upstream and down. They are gone for days. Then one evening, just as the sun is dropping into the trees on the other side of the gorge, the men return to the cave, their voices full of relief and wonder: There are no other people on the river. We are safe from the Iroquois.
Chickadee and I find golden-yellow marsh marigolds in the thawing swamps. I teach her how to make garlands for our hair.
Once Grandfather is sure the winter is really over, we pack up all our belongings. The winter clothes and cooking pots, the knives and spoons, the muskets, the vegetable seeds, and the bearskin and wolfskin blankets are all tucked away into knapsacks and bags.
We have bright-red cloth for dresses and new copper kettles as shiny as pennies for cooking. The men look more relaxed now that they have plenty of shot and powder.
At last the bright-green leaves have a May look to them. I wonder if today is my birthday. If it is, that means I've been a captive for one year. On my last birthday, I lay in bed waiting to see what twelve felt like. That was only one year ago! After all that's happened, I feel as though one hundred years have passed, not just one.
When we have collected everything, we walk along the cliff trail. Instead of turning toward the river, we climb up the gorge to a flat piece of land just to the left of our cave. There's a stream winding through the center of the flat land. The water tumbles over the cliff to the river. This flat land above the cave will be our new home.
The men chop down the saplings and the women dig out the roots with shovels made of elk collarbones and flint knives. I help pile the sodden roots onto a steaming fire. Later we'll mix the root ashes back into the soil.
The men carefully peel the bark off the big trees and cut down more saplings. We all work together to make wigwams, twenty-five of them, one for each family. The bark is layered carefully over the springy saplings, then lashed together with grapevines.
Inside, our wigwam is almost as dark as the cave, but Hepte has covered the floor with pine needles. Sleeping on pine needles is a great comfort compared to the wet cave floor-the needles are soft and fill my nose with their crisp scent every time I move.
Our family fire is made up of five logs shaped into a star. Hepte calls it a starfire. I remember a woman on the march carrying live coals in a covered stone pot. Whenever we stopped, she added wood chips to the pot. Last fall, on the first night we spent in the cave, she added burning wood chips to each family's fire. Now she is going from starfire to starfire, adding more wood chips to each one.
When she comes to our starfire, Hepte looks pleased and relieved. I ask her to explain.
Hepte tells me, slowly, that our starfires should never stop burning or the wigwam will die along with everyone in it. In the first days none other than Kishelemukong himself, the Creator, allowed bits of stars to fall from the sky and ignite the flames.
She points to our fire. "Our Turtle clan starfire has been burning since those first days."
That can't be true, I think. "Since before the yah-qua-whee were killed?"
"Of course."
I shake my head. "No sense."
"In the first days," she says slowly, "a giant turtle rose from the sea, and the plants, the animals, and the People grew on his back. As long as there are the People and as long as their starfires burn, the giant turtle will float on the sea's surface and life will continue. If the fires go out, everything, even light itself, will disappear.
"The People honor turtles because of their patience and long life. Turtles can live on land and water. They feed on animals and plants. They can thrive anywhere."
That's why we're the Turtle clan, I think. It makes sense that the royal clan would be named after them.
"The Bear clan, the Wolf clan, the Turkey clan also honor turtles?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Grandfather is like the giant turtle. He holds up the world, or at least his part of it."
"I will tell him you said that," Hepte says with a smile.
I study our starfire as though it were a living thing. The flickering firelight does seem to whisper of ancient times and carefully guarded secrets. I wonder if these secrets will ever be told to me.
As I go to sleep, I remember that I haven't seen Mrs. Stewart today. It's been a long day; we hauled our baggage up the cliff trail, we built wigwams, the starfires are burning once more.
Where was Mrs. Stewart?
She must have been gathering firewood, I tell myself, or peeling bark for the wigwams. Maybe she's finally decided to work.
***
When the time comes to plant the seeds, the girls, women, and old men use elk-collarbone shovels to break up the earth. We sift the
crisscrossed leftover roots out with our fingers and throw them into another steaming fire. The sun is hot, but the wet soil is cold, and by the end of the day my fingers are as cold and stiff as when I jumped into the Cuyahoga.
The gorge has turned lacy white with dogwood blossoms. Our winter birds-redbirds, chickadees, blue jays-must fight with the newcomers for tree space. Every day I see more and more springtime birds: golden finches, bluebirds, redwing blackbirds, scarlet tanagers, orioles, purple warblers. Their singing and bright feathers delight my ears and eyes. The robins hip-hop along the riverbank looking for worms, first with one eye cocked to the ground and then the other, as if they can't decide which eye works the better.
Hepte says it's planting time for the Three Sisters-the corn, the squash, and the beans. We'll also plant pumpkins. Each woman has brought her own supply of seeds on the long march from the Allegheny.
We plant the corn inside the circle of wigwams and on both sides of the stream. Once the cornstalks are knee high, the beans and squash will be planted. The cornstalks will serve as bean poles; their shadows will provide shade for the squash and pumpkin vines.
The vegetables' roots will nourish one another and the soil surrounding them.
"Like good sisters," Hepte tells me as Chickadee laughs and pats my face, "the vegetables help one another grow strong."
Hepte explains slowly and carefully; I understand just about everything she says. Chickadee is much harder to follow. She speaks too quickly, and her words blur together because she's lost her front baby teeth. White Eyes doesn't talk to me much; he spends most of his time with the men.
Grandfather has told everyone No English, so I've had no choice but to learn their language. Most of the families are Unami, including mine, but there are other Delaware-a few Mohicans and Munsees-in our group. Just like me, they are all homesick for their lands and the way of life they left in the east.
All last winter Grandfather and a group of four other men met every few days to practice speaking English. I was always welcome. Now he shoos me away.
"Muxomsa, please," I plead with him. "My English will go."
"You will not forget. Your English is here." He taps my chest, where my heart beats underneath.
"We help each other? I help with hard words."
"I already know the hard words. Nuxkwis, you help us more by speaking only Unami." He turns his back and refuses to discuss the English-talking group again.
"Grandfather is as mean as a bear," I say to Hepte that afternoon in our garden. "I am afraid to lose my English."
"You won't forget your English because it is nestled in your heart. You help us more if you learn Unami. My father is a wise man-you must listen to him. He is not only your grandfather but your sachem as well."
I look at her suspiciously. Has she been talking to him about me?
"Think about everything you have learned just by listening hard and asking questions."
"Heh-heh," I mutter, throwing a tangle of roots onto the fire.
No time like the present, I think as I clear my throat. "I need to talk to Mrs. Stewart. Important."
"If Mrs. Stewart wants to spend the rest of her days living in the cave, then let her," Hepte says hotly.
"But I care—"
"I don't care. We don't care. You don't care. Understand?" Hepte looks at me, and I see the same flashing anger in her eyes as I see in her father's sometimes.
She turns away to shake soil from a mass of roots.
I'm working hard this afternoon, and the sun is hot. We're wearing just leather aprons. I have an idea for getting away and warning Mrs. Stewart.
"Hepte." I point to my milk-white chest and back. "I am thinking, the sun will cook me? Um ... red me?"
"Tonn..." Hepte smiles. "We get sunburned too."
"The sun is too strong for me. I will stoke the starfire. Please, Gahes?"
Gahes.
I've never called her "mother" before.
I have trouble meeting her eyes, but when I do, I see Hepte looking at me with her own eyes wet and shining.
"Tonn," she whispers, "you may leave our garden."
I run back to the wigwam and pull my cotton dress over my shoulders. When I'm sure no one is looking, I climb down the cliff path to the cave.
Guilt tweaks at my heart because I lied to Hepte and called her "mother." She has treated me with nothing but kindness, often giving me food when she has none. But I can't let them trade Mrs. Stewart to that grimy Sequin as though she were a doeskin or a beaver pelt. If I warn her, she'll come out of the cave and work, earn her keep. Then Grandfather won't trade her for muskets.
At first I see no one in the cave. When my eyes adjust to the dimness, I see a figure in the corner holding a bundle in her arms. A bad sign.
She's sitting by what was once a fire. Now there's nothing but cinders and ashes.
"Mrs. Stewart, I've come to warn you."
She looks up in alarm and holds the bundle closer to her. When she sees it's me, her shoulders relax.
"Mary! Sit down next to the fire. This is a rare surprise."
The bundle is a short log wrapped in deerskin. I know what it's supposed to be-she's been holding it off and on all winter.
"You're holding Sammy again, Mrs. Stewart. You told me you wouldn't do that anymore."
She presses her thin cheek to the bark and rocks it back and forth. Her eyes are bright with fear as she whispers to the log.
"Listen carefully. I don't have much time-I'm supposed to be tending our fire. Netawatwees Sachem wants to trade you to Sequin for muskets."
She tilts her head slightly in my direction. "Sequin? Muskets? Trade?"
"That filthy little Frenchman with the trading post by Cat Lake, the Erie Lake. He wants to trade muskets for a wife." I don't tell her that he's already tried trading muskets for me.
"Grandfather wants to trade you for muskets because you won't work. They can't afford to keep anyone who won't work. So you have to leave the cave and tend the garden. You have to leave now"
I brace myself for her anger, her outrage.
Instead, Mrs. Stewart looks at the bundle for a long time. At first I think she doesn't understand what I said to her. She has that same hollow look in her eyes I saw in the weeks after our capture.
"What does Mr. Sequin's cabin look like, Mary?"
"It's disgusting. The trading-post side isn't so bad, but the side where he lives! Dirty clothes, smelly linens, and cook pots so filthy, there's mold growing out of them."
"Furniture?"
"Lots of furniture. Fancy things-hand carved, I mean. He must have portaged it down the St. Lawrence from Montreal, or France even. But the furniture's spoiled too."
"Fancy things," Mrs. Stewart echoes. "I had to sell my mother's mahogany sideboard before our removal to Pennsylvania."
After living for so long with people who don't speak English, I've learned to read faces. Mrs. Stewart's face is full of hope-hope and escape.
"I can't believe what you're thinking! You're ... you're already married," I stammer. Married to two husbands, I almost say, but I catch myself in time.
"Am I?" she says softly.
"You haven't even asked me what Sequin looks like."
"I don't care what he looks like," she says in a dreamy voice. "I want a good home, for Sammy and me."
"You'll have to kiss him," I reply hotly. "And he hasn't even got teeth."
"Have I ever told you that my name is Mary too?"
"No." I hesitate for a moment. "But you can't—"
"My name is Mary Stewart," she says softly. "And any life is better than this one. I have no hope, Mary, don't you see?"
Down in the gorge a blue heron flaps out of a huge nest high in a treetop. I watch her as she glides just above the Cuyahoga, looking for fish for her babies.
"He has soap," I finally say. "Soap that smells like roses. Not that he's ever used any."
"Hope," Mrs. Stewart says softly, or maybe she says "Soap." She takes a deep breath
and holds the bundle closer to her. "Tell that high-and-mighty old Netawatwees I'll go to Sequin's. Tell him Sammy and I will leave today."
"Oh no! If I tell him you want to go, he'll know I've been talking to you."
"I don't understand your meaning, Mary."
"Grandfather won't let me speak English anymore. I'm not allowed. I'm not supposed to be in the cave talking to you."
She grasps my elbow. "What do you mean he won't let you speak English?"
Her red, wrinkled hand looks like a turkey buzzard's claw. It's all I can do not to pull away from her. "He says I have to learn their language."
"You're turning into a savage, right in front of my eyes! Come with me," she says, giving my elbow a little pull. "Sequin will want you, too."
"NO!" I shout. "I can't. The ... the Turtles would never let me leave. You'll have to speak for yourself, Mrs. Stewart. Talk to Netawatwees Sachem yourself"
"Mary," Mrs. Stewart says in a bewildered voice, "what do turtles have to do with your leaving?"
"It's their name, I reckon: Hepte, Chickadee, Grandfather."
Mrs. Stewart shakes her head and clutches the log closer.
"We'll have to talk to him together then," I say. "He'll be angry with me, but he'll be gladder still to be rid of you, especially if it means muskets."
I've never heard Mrs. Stewart laugh before. Her lilting, feminine laughter bounces off the walls of the cave.
Back in Fairfield we used to have a festive Saturday-night supper before Christmas week with hymn singing afterward.
Just hearing Mrs. Stewart's laughter makes me smell again the pine and holly boughs on the walls, and the hams, spicy pies, and rich cakes on my mother's sideboards.
We'd invite all our friends and relations. At our party I would sit on the staircase with Constance, studying the pretty young women of the town. They would laugh just like that, standing in the center of a flock of admirers. The bright fans they fluttered in front of their smiles shimmered like butterfly wings.
The Beaded Moccasins Page 9