When I Crossed No-Bob

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When I Crossed No-Bob Page 10

by Margaret McMullan


  When the sun goes down we sit around the fires Zula says are sacred. We eat. Each family has their one bowl. Zula and Mr. Tempy have me eat from their bowl even though I am not family. I don't have to be Choctaw to know that this means something.

  We feast on wild turkey and pumpkin.

  The women sit in a circle and sing. The men stand outside the circle and play their chichicouas, which are gourds filled with pebbles. Zula tells me the names of their things and their dances—the turtle dance and the tick dance.

  "It is a bad time for the Choctaw," Zula says. "This bright path has led us to darkness. We have lost our homes and now we are wanderers."

  The turtle dancers sing and Zula tells me what their words mean: "A life in the wilderness with plenty of meat, fish, fowl, and the turtle dance is far better than our old homes, and the corn, and the fruit, and the heart-melting fear of the dreadful Europeans."

  "Who are the Europeans?" I ask.

  "Anglos," Zula says.

  The tick dancers trace out a sacred circle in the high grass and stomp on imaginary ticks. "The ticks are the first boatload of Anglos," Zula whispers.

  "Who are the Anglos?" I ask.

  "Pale." Zula looks around, trying to find the word. "Tempy. You."

  "So you want to stomp us?"

  Zula laughs and brings bread to her lips with her fingers. "Not all of you."

  The dancing and singing go on through the night. When she sees that I am tired, Zula takes me to her cabin and makes me a pallet on the floor next to hers. She and her baby and I sleep side by side. The rest are still outside, dancing now, not singing, and through the window we can see the far-off glow of their sacred fires.

  The next morning, Mr. Tempy tells me he is riding into town, into Raleigh, and he sure would like some company.

  I look at Zula. I look around this fine camp and at the women fixing to go down to the water to make baskets. I thank him and say no. I'd rather stay here with Zula. I miss the company of women.

  When Mr. Tempy leaves, I set out with the women while the men set out with their bows and arrows to bring down big and small game. We walk forever, it seems, walking in a straight line. Zula carries her baby in the sack hanging down in front of her. Zula tells me her ancestors named one part of the stream, the part with the white sand, Oka Bogue, which means "The Creek of Clear Water." They like the creek for the curative herbs and waters.

  We settle down near the water and begin. They teach me with their hands, and all day we make baskets from the oak and hickory trees. Some of these baskets we weave tight enough to hold water. Zula's baby is a good baby and gurgles and giggles at the sound of our voices and the running water and the bobwhites calling.

  I stay on like this, living among the Choctaw for as long as it is cold. I add twenty more notches to my stick of wood, making fifty days and nights that I have been away.

  I learn from Zula about herbs and teas she mixes together herself. I learn from Zula about shaping a baby's head after it is born. I learn from Zula how to play chunky and other games of chance. I learn the word for mosquitoes is marangouins. I see the colors of Zula's baskets, colors she squeezes from the land, colors that have names I did not know before. We don't talk so much as we do. That's how I learn. I do as they do. I do as Zula does.

  I get a hankering for books and I ask Zula if she has something for me to read.

  "The Choctaw has no need for books," she says. "When he wishes to make known his views, like his fathers before him, he speaks from his mouth. Writing gives birth to error and feuds. When the great spirit talks, we hear him in the thunder, in the rushing winds and the mighty water."

  "You want me to recite you a poem, then?" I ask.

  I recite what I can remember from the poem Mr. Frank learned me. It's a poem called "Ode on a Grecian Urn," and even though I miss most of the middle, I'm real clear on the ending.

  When old age shall this generation waste,

  Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

  Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

  "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

  "You are so young to know such wisdom," she says. "Much time has passed since I have heard such words."

  "Oh, I didn't write that. I just recited it."

  "But you are wise enough to remember. You are wise to know."

  "I need more than a poem," I say.

  ***

  One night before we both fall to sleep, Zula whispers to me, "The Anglos are looking for you." We sleep side by side just like every other night in our own women's cabin. Mr. Tempy has just come back from being gone, and he has spoken to Zula. "They have Mr. Frank in jail and Miss Irene is expecting a baby. They are saying that Mr. Frank has something to do with that black man Sunny Rise."

  "Who's they?"

  "A Mr. Smith. And your father."

  "What happened to Sunny Rise?"

  "He ran away and nobody can find him. They say Mr. Frank kidnapped him and walked him to a boat that took him north. They say he does such things."

  I think on this. It could be true. He and his pa walked Buck to freedom. "But why would that land Mr. Frank in jail?"

  "Sunny Rise owes money to a Mr. Smith. Now Mr. Smith says Mr. Frank has to pay him. This Mr. Smith demands an arrest warrant for Mr. Frank."

  "I thought there was an arrest warrant for Mr. Smith and my pappy."

  "They caught them, then set them free. Law says there were no eyewitnesses. No evidence."

  "That's crazy," I say, knowing I am the eye in eyewitness.

  "Anglos," Zula says. "They are full up with too much noise."

  We both think and we don't say anything. We can hear the low talk of men's voices outside around the fires.

  "Court's in session, and I want Frank to know that I'm on his side," Mr. Tempy tells me the next morning. "I'll be honest with you, Addy. Our friend needs your help."

  "But what can I do?"

  "Addy, Irene told me you know some things about that fire at the schoolhouse. Just tell people what you know."

  "Is Mr. Frank asking for me? Did he say he needed me?"

  "He doesn't know what he needs," Mr. Tempy says. "Besides, Frank never asks for help. You and I both know that."

  I feel my legs and arms shaking like they're cold. I feel my chin quiver and my eyes tear up. This comes over me all at once and I don't know why. "I'd have to tell on my pappy," I whisper. "I'm not strong like you or Mr. Frank. I don't think I can cross family."

  Mr. Tempy puts his arm around me and my shaking settles some. "I'm not going to tell you it's easy, because it's not. I left my family up north. Hardest thing I ever did. But I found my own family here. You'll be fine. You're stronger than you know."

  Zula takes me by the hand.

  "Where are you taking her?" Mr. Tempy says.

  "The Choctaw always thinks," she says. "We need time to answer."

  "But she's not even Choctaw!"

  Zula doesn't bother answering Mr. Tempy. She leads me to a cabin off in the distance, set apart from the others. She tells me she will perform rites to secure divine favor and ensure that my passage into the outside world will be successful.

  "But I haven't said I'm going to Raleigh," I say. "Not yet."

  "Words," Zula says. "Too many words."

  She paints me white as though I am not white, as though I am Choctaw. Up close, Zula smells of sage. She says that I am crossing boundaries and that I must prepare myself for the transformation from order to disorder. She says I must respect these boundaries to maintain order in my world. We drink tea she has brewed special. It is minty and musty-tasting and it makes me open my eyes wide.

  Together we sit alone in this hut made for crossings.

  I tell Zula about the little man in my dreams. I tell her that after sleeping amongst the Choctaw, I think that he has left me for good. I tell Zula about my dreams and she tells me the little man's name because she says
she knows all about him.

  "That is Kwanokasha," she says. "He is one of the border guards. He lives in caves in the rough and broken part of the country, searching for young children whom he captures and brings to his cave where three spirits live. The child who takes the knife will grow up to be a murderer. The one who fancies the poisonous herbs will never be able to help others. But you took the medicinal herbs," she says, looking me over, taking my hand. "You will be a healer."

  I laugh. "Me? Don't you know the O'Donnells? I think I was born to be one of those others. Not a healer."

  Zula is not laughing. She is shaking her head. "I do not know this tribe O'Donnell. I only know Anglo and Addy. You have met up with Kwanokasha. He has wanted to influence you during your crossing. But you? You have chosen good medicine. You mean to help people."

  "No," I say. "I'm just mean. I'm an O'Donnell and that's what everyone says about us."

  Zula, she just smiles.

  "I knew I recognized you. I knew the first time I saw you across the river, when you were with your friend. You and I. We are both healers."

  Mr. Tempy and I ride together on one horse all morning, and when we get to Raleigh, we see children playing in the street. The children look so young and small and they make so much noise, more noise than I've heard children make in a long, long time. They look up at me, riding with Mr. Tempy. They point and stare. They say, "Here come Injuns." They say, "Look at that little boy Injun riding with his pappy."

  I am glad now for Zula's paint. I am glad for the disguise.

  Mr. Tempy whispers to me about Raleigh. Court officials and jurors stay at the hotel owned by Mr. Childre across the street from the courthouse. They talk politics and court cases. They are there now, sitting on the big front porch, dressed in their Sunday best.

  He tells me that the main room of the hotel has bullet holes in the ceiling from when Mr. Childre was mistaken for a deserter from the Confederate army and shot at. As we pass the hotel, we hear the tinny piano and plinking banjos from inside. The doors open wide then and all of Mr. Childre's children come running out. He shouts out to them to scat. He says he does not want his children or his wife mixed up in the dirty affairs of the country. He says this loud enough for everyone to hear, then he eyeballs Mr. Tempy and me as we ride past.

  Mr. Tempy tethers his horse. I am shaking all over again and I think that my knees will give out from under me. Mr. Tempy, he takes my hand and puts what looks like a tooth on my palm.

  "That there's a bear claw. It's what I took from Kwanokasha. It's helped me some. Maybe you can get something out of it too."

  I put the bear claw in my pocket and walk into the courthouse with Mr. Tempy. People stop talking and stare. I hear, "Who let in the Injuns?" I hear, "They're not Injuns, just dressed like Injuns." Mr. Tempy heads for the front, but I pull his sleeve and we sit down close to the back.

  Rew Smith is sitting there in front of us next to his pappy, Mr. Smith. He looks at me, then pinches his nose with his fingers.

  "He smells like dirt," he says of me. His pappy laughs.

  I am glad Rew does not recognize me. I sniff myself and it's true I whiff of dried leaves, mud, and acorns, but what of it? Leastways I don't eat dirt. My cousins in No-Bob eat dirt, but not me.

  I have been gone and away in the woods for a good long time. I have been quiet with myself and listened only to screech owls and squirrels, deer and turkeys, Zula and other women in the tribe. Here in this town of Raleigh, Mississippi, there is only noise noise noise. Zula is right. Us Anglos are full up with too much noise and too many words. My ears ring with all the words. Children running around, screaming in the streets, women inside whispering whispering, and the men brawling in the Harrison Hotel, singing, shouting, and making more noise. They can't sit quiet. They can't sit still. When do they think? Do they think?

  When Pappy comes into the courthouse, I can hardly stand to look at him. He needs cleaning up some, with his craggy eyebrows and big ears. He looks like one more dirty O'Donnell child. I have not been there to care for him.

  Pappy passes me without recognizing me. I am invisible to him.

  Then I hear the talk start up. I hear a lady whisper to another lady, "Those O'Donnells? Meanest folks what ever lived." The other lady whispers back, "It's them kind of folks what's got things so tore up now." I hear, "I've never known an O'Donnell to come off the loser." I hear, "They just like a little fun and mischief. They're not bad." I hear someone say Mark O'Donnell, my pappy, has killed as many as fifty men in his lifetime. The number is there without the funny stories.

  Pappy takes his seat right in front of me and Mr. Tempy. He sits next to Mr. Smith and Rew. He is right in front of me, so close I can smell the oil he put in his dirty hair to smooth it back. I can smell his whiskey breath as he whispers something to Mr. Smith. I can see his frayed collar, the comb tracks on the back of his head, the caked dirt on the back of his neck and behind his ears. I want to shake him and scream, Pappy, why did you ever leave Momma and me?

  Then the sheriff brings in Mr. Frank. Oh, but he looks tired and pale. I catch a glimpse of Miss Irene up front, big with child. When they look at each other, they both look glad to see each other and not. I understand this. They want to see each other, miss each other, but not here, not this way. Mr. Frank is shamed. He sits at a table with his lawyer, without his wife, without his family.

  Miss Irene sits directly behind Mr. Frank.

  The judge comes in, we stand up, and he thumps his big gavel on his desk, calling for all of us to settle down and listen up. Two men stand in front of his desk, whispering their whispers. These men in suits are lawyers.

  One of the lawyers takes his seat with Mr. Frank. The other signals to Mr. Smith, who says to everyone around him, "This shouldn't take too long." Pappy and Rew laugh and straighten themselves, proud to know the man who steps up to the front of the courtroom to sit with his very own lawyer.

  As the sheriff walks toward the back of the courtroom, Mr. Tempy gets his attention. The sheriff comes over and Mr. Tempy whispers something to him, pointing toward me. The sheriff hurries to the front of the courtroom and whispers to Mr. Frank's lawyer.

  It seems they're all through with accusing Mr. Frank of taking Sunny Rise out of town and out of state. We learn too that someone has taken a good bit of courtroom time proving that Sunny Rise owed Mr. Smith a thousand dollars, and because Mr. Frank took Sunny Rise away, it is up to Mr. Frank to pay up.

  They are into the let's-hear-what-you-have-to-say-for-yourself part.

  Mr. Smith's lawyer calls Little Bit to the stand. She is wearing a fine new peach-colored calico dress. The lawyer asks her questions about what all her brother Mr. Frank has been doing. I pray that Little Bit keeps her head.

  "Is your brother a member of any organization that you know of?"

  Little Bit thinks on this. "The church."

  Folks laugh.

  "How about the Ku Klux Klan?"

  "No, sir! Not my brother. He says it's nothing but evil." Many folks whisper and I can't hear what they are saying. The lawyer smiles at all of us in the courtroom, smiling like not being a member of the Klan is something bad.

  "See, my brother helped rebuild that schoolhouse that the men with the hoods burned down to the ground. The sheriff is still looking for the men who did that, and me and Addy O'Donnell saw it all. That night."

  Everybody in the room, they all start to talk at once.

  The lawyer keeps on smiling, like he thinks this little girl is real funny. "Miss Russell."

  "Little Bit," Little Bit says.

  "Little Bit. It would be impossible to identify any of the men from that night because they were all wearing hoods. You said so yourself."

  "But I know their shoes," she says, just as sure as she can be. Mr. Smith and Pappy just snicker.

  "Show me a shoe and I'll show you the man," Little Bit says. She tells the judge and the jury what kind and what color shoes two of the men wore. "I'm closer to the ground than mo
st people," Little Bit tells the judge.

  The judge nods and says just to make sure that Mr. Frank is not a Klan member and was not there that night of the fire, breaking the law, he'd like to see Mr. Frank's shoes. When Mr. Frank stands, we all see that he is wearing shoes he has made himself on his land and these are not the shoes that Little Bit described.

  Mr. Smith and Pappy are not laughing anymore. Pappy tucks in his legs so that his feet are under his seat.

  The lawyer says, "Frank Russell is your brother, is he not, young lady?"

  "Yes, sir, he is, sir."

  "And you would do anything for him, would you not?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Including lie?"

  She thinks about this. "No, sir. Ma and Pa taught me not to lie. So did Frank."

  A few of the folks laugh. When Little Bit is excused, she walks straight to the back of the courthouse toward me and Mr. Tempy.

  "See?" she whispers to me. "I told you I'm not some Little Miss Priss."

  She is the only one to recognize me. Only she would.

  We both of us smile at each other. She was sitting up front with her ma and pa, Mr. Frank's parents. Jack is there too, taken to sucking his thumb again. I wish Little Bit could sit by me.

  Then she takes a seat right by me. She squirms to fit. She's giggly and sweet-smelling and having too much fun. She takes my hand, then with her other wipes away some of Zula's white paint from around my eyes. She laughs and whispers, "Sure good to see you again, Addy O'Donnell."

  She presses something into the palm of my hand. Paper. It is the folded-up map we buried inside the jar under Mr. Frank's praying log.

  Mr. Frank's lawyer calls Mr. Frank to have a seat and to tell him about his most recent trip to New Orleans. Turns out that since Mr. Frank had all his goods stolen on his first trip, he went again. That's when Sunny Rise disappeared, that night I saw the men in the land of the bones. While Mr. Frank was gone.

 

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