I Am Regina (13 page)

The harvest celebration goes on. But Dupré's talk, the rum he has given to the men, turns them ugly. The dance of friendship becomes a dance of war. The women stand together in small, hushed groups watching the men leap in circles around the fire. Hidden within the shadows of the surrounding trees, I watch, too. Now the men drive tomahawks into a post that has been fixed into the ground and curse the Yengee devils. I don't see Tiger Claw or Dupré anywhere. They probably went off together, plotting war.

Tummaa paws my skirt and whines. I lift him up and hug him, needing Tummaa's reassurance as much as he needs mine. How could a dance of peace turn so quickly into one of hate? These people are driven by an anger I cannot understand. Their savage dancing frightens me.

I wish that I could stay here, my back protected by the trees, but I suddenly realize that I have forgotten all about the pottage. Woelfin will be angry if I let it burn. I slip through the trees to the spit I erected a few yards from our hut and find that the pottage has cooked to a thick hard crust. I search the crowds for Woelfin.

Now I see her in her feathered cape standing alongside the fat woman who danced with me. Their faces are turned toward the dancing warriors who pretend they are in battle. The firelight glitters off their sweat-streaked bodies as they threaten to beat and stab and cut each other with their tomahawks and knives.

My heart beating, I lug the heavy kettle into the forest. I scrape the pottage out and feel relieved once the remains are hidden in the leaves.

The howls of the angry warriors send shivers down my spine. Clouds cover the moon and a cold wind bites my skin. I hang the empty kettle back on the spit, then run to the hut to fetch my deerskin cloak. Tummaa pads along beside me, silent and subdued. Time was when I wished this night would last forever. Now I wish that it would end.

 

 

 

O
ur hut smells of stale sweat. Even the sweet grass I hung from the rafters cannot mask the sour scent. The fire smolders, giving little light. Outside the drums still beat as the war dance goes on. I kneel beside my bed and feel beneath it for the basket in which I store my deerskin cloak.

Beside me, Tummaa growls. I reach out to calm him and feel the hackles rise along his back. Something is not right in here. The air feels thick with body heat. Someone moves in the shadows behind me.

“Tiger Claw!” I gasp when I see his face, not a man's face, but an eagle's, all beak and eyes. His dark-rimmed eyes stare into mine.

“I ... I came for my cloak,” I tell him as I quickly stand. I sense he has been drinking. His eyes are unfocused, as if he sees, but does not see. He is unsteady on his feet.

“Tskinnak.” Tiger Claw slurs my name. He throws his arm around my shoulders. I try to push him off, but he leans on me and traps me with his weight. His breath stinks of rum. Tummaa cowers beside me, whining.

“Dupré. Meet my white squaw,” Tiger Claw says.

“I am not your white squaw,” I say, searching frantically through the dark and smokey air for Dupré. I would hate to have him creep up on my back.

Dupré emerges from the shadowy comer near my bed. His face is narrow, like a ferret's. His thin dark beard does not hide the smirk I see on his face. “So this is the squaw you captured last fall.” Dupré eyes me, up and down. “Your hunting was good.”

“Let me go.” I struggle against Tiger Claw, desperate to escape from these two men. They have been drinking in our hut. They must have been plotting war, sitting on my bed. I hate them. Hate. the touch of Tiger Claw's bared chest against the new clothes Nonschetto made for me.

“This white squaw needs taming,” Dupré says.

“I am not a white squaw!” I say, hating the words “white squaw.” They demean me.

“Tskinnak is tame. She does what I say.” Tiger Claw squeezes my shoulder warning me to be silent.

“Then I leave you to your pleasure,” Dupré says. “Tomorrow we talk more.” Wind whips into the hut as he opens the door flap. The fire's hot coals blaze and sputter. The door flap closes and they die down.

I feel my heart beat, loud in my chest. “Let me go.”

“Tskinnak.” Tiger Claw throws his other arm around my shoulders and he hugs me. The other times when he was drinking, he only touched me with his eyes, never with his hands. But Woelfin was nearby then. I must get out of here.

I throw my weight against Tiger Claw. I push as hard as I can and he stumbles backward I slip out of his arms and back away, slowly, feeling my way around the fire toward the door. Tummaa growls and presses his body against my legs.

“I didn't say you could leave,” Tiger Claw says angrily. He lurches toward me.

Tummaa barks and bares his teeth.

“Move!” Tiger Claw kicks Tummaa out of the way. The puppy wails as he tumbles backward into an earthen pot.

“Tummaa!” I scream.

Tiger Claw kicks my puppy again and then again.

“No!” I throw myself in front of Tiger Claw. I grasp his arms and jerk him away from my little puppy.

Tiger Claw tries to shove me aside. I sink my teeth into his arm and bite down, hard. Tiger Claw bellows with rage. He grabs my hair, drags me to his bed and throws me down upon it. “I teach you to be good squaw,” he says, slapping my face.

“I hate you!” I scream.

Tiger Claw hits my face over and over again. Hot, bright pain sears my eyes, my mouth.

Suddenly, he stops. His breath is heavy, thick with the smell of rum. I feel his body lower over mine. Now it pins me to the bed. “You be good squaw,” he mumbles.

Blackness hovers over me. “No. No.” I throw my aching head from side to side.

“Good squaw.” He runs a hand across my shoulder, down my arm.

I want to die. I wish that I could die. Oh dear Lord, help me, give me strength. Desperate, I shove my hand into Tiger Claw's chin, snapping it away from me.

Tiger Claw forces my hand backward and pins it to the bed. He grabs my other hand and holds it, too. I cannot move.

Minutes pass. Long minutes filled with shadows and Tiger Claw's loud breathing. Tiger Claw wants to possess me as ... as a man does a woman. I sense it now. I feel helpless and ashamed.

I sink down into the bed, wishing the saplings would break beneath me. Wishing the earth below would part and I would fall into an endless inner sky where Tiger Claw could never reach me.

I begin to sink into my vast imagined darkness and a low voice calls me back. “Drunken dog,” it says. “You would take a girl against her will? Like a Yengee devil? You shame our people.”

“Nonschetto,” I whisper, my relief at being rescued turning me as limp as rags. I struggle to see her. Pain flashes through my head as I open my eyes. But ... it is not Nonschetto's face I see before I drown in darkness. It ... is Woelfin's.

The next thing I know is the warmth of a compress against my cheek. I slowly open my swollen eyelids. Pale light seeps through the cracks in our hut. It is morning.

“Tskinnak. Do you feel better now?” Nonschetto sits beside me on my bed, her round face filled with sweet concern. She is gently bathing my face.

“My head hurts,” I whisper.

“My heart beats in sorrow for what happened to you.”

“How ... how did you know?”

“Woelfin told me. She knows we are like sisters. She said you needed me. I have been here all night long, helping her to nurse you. We were worried that you would not awaken.”

“Woelfin nursed me?” I whisper.

“She bathed your face with wet leaves and held your hands when you cried out.”

Nonschetto must sense my disbelief She smoothes the hair away from my eyes and says, “Tskinnak. Woelfin is old and bitter, but she is a woman. She knows how you feel.”

I lift my hands and stare at them. I think of all the times Woelfin scolded and threatened me, calling me a lazy child who is good for nothing. And yet ... Woelfin held these hands. She saved me from her son.

“Tiger Claw,” I whisper, remembering his painted face, how it hovered over me. I hate him and what he tried to do.

“Tiger Claw left at dawn with the Frenchman and several other warriors. They join the Shawnee and other Delawares who raid white man's farms. Before Tiger Claw left, Woelfin cursed him. She said maggots will breed inside his body. They will eat his flesh and he will die in agony if he ever takes a woman against her will.”

“Woelfin cursed Tiger Claw?” I ask, unable to believe it.

“Woelfin said no Indian may take a woman who is not his wife. It is a matter of honor with our people that goes beyond the ties of a mother to her son.”

A shadow moves on the bark wall a few inches from my head. Woelfin's shadow. She tends to something cooking on the fire. Her shadow reminds me of a bird with broad dark wings. Woelfin's wings kept me from falling into a shame that would have darkened all my days. I must thank her.

Nonschetto supports my shoulders as I struggle to sit up. Pain pounds through my head and I see stars before my vision clears. Quetit's small body is not curled up on her bed. “Where is Quetit?” I whisper the question, but the words ring loudly in my head. I am afraid of what might have happened to her.

“I took her to my hut after I found out what had happened to you. She was so tired and sleepy from the dance, she didn't even protest,” Nonschetto says. “She sleeps with Gokhas now. The two are curled tight together, like little bear cubs.”

My relief is fleeting, for now I see the worn straw mat beside my bed where Tummaa always sleeps. The mat is empty, like my heart. Tears fill my eyes as I think of my little friend, of how he defended me.

I do not ask Nonschetto about Tummaa, for I am afraid to hear her answer. No animal could survive what Tiger Claw did to Tummaa. I believe Tiger Claw enjoys killing everything I love.

Nonschetto helps me to my feet. Through my tears I see Woelfin, draped in a deerskin cloak. She stirs something in a kettle sitting on the fire's hot embers. She sees me staring at her. She lifts her ladle and points to me. “Tskinnak. You must eat.” There is a hint of tenderness in her voice that belies the stem look on her face.

Nonschetto supports my arm and walks beside me to the fire. I try to drink the broth that Woelfin gives me, but the broth is hot and my throat is tight. I want to thank Woelfin for what she's done, but she says nothing more to me and I find I cannot look at her. I feel ashamed by what Tiger Claw tried to do.

The hut appears the same, as if last night had never happened. And yet, something is different. At first I cannot pin it down. Then, slowly, I begin to see. It is just a little thing. The bearskin Woelfin always keeps upon her bed is now spread out upon the floor.

My head pounds as Nonschetto helps me walk slowly toward the bearskin and I try not to hope too hard. Something still and gray lies upon it. Tummaa.

The puppy tries to raise his head when I kneel beside him. He slowly thumps his tail in greeting. A splint, made from a piece of kindling and wrapped around with deerskin, holds a broken leg in place.

“Poor Tummaa. His leg is hurt.” Nonschetto kneels and rubs his ears.

“Who mended his leg?” I ask, basking in the soft feel of Tummaa's tongue against my hand.
Tummaa
is
alive.

“Woelfin,” she replies. “I watched her. She is good with animals.”

Tummaa laps at the broth I offer him and I turn to gaze at Woelfin. I know she has heard every word we've said, but she says nothing. Like a crone, she hovers over the kettle, stirring her soup. She has saved me from her son. She has mended my puppy's broken leg. I should thank her. But I don't know how, for she will not look at me. My words of thanks stick in my throat and I know now that I can never say them. Woelfin creates a space between us that is too wide to bridge.

“Tskinnak,” Nonschetto says in a gentle voice. She is going to tell me something I do not want to hear. I can tell by her tone. “Dupré, told Clear Sky of a French trader who arrives at the river forks in two days. He brings brass kettles, fine beads and broadcloth. Clear Sky wants me to help in bartering. I must leave. Clear Sky's furs are packed. He waits for me.”

“Do not go.”

“It will be the last time to trade before the snow flies. I will bring you back beads. You will look pretty in the necklace I will make from them.” Nonschetto places something cold and smooth in my hand. Her bone-handled knife. “This will protect you while I am gone.”

“I do not want your knife.” I try to hand it back to her, thinking that if I do not take it, Nonschetto will stay.

Nonschetto cups my hands with hers. She gently closes my fingers around the knife handle. “Come. I will help you back to bed.”

“No. I will stay with Tummaa.” I lie down beside my puppy and curl myself around his warmness. I close my aching eyes and feel Nonschetto's hand, soft against my face.

“Please. Don't go,” I whisper again, knowing that the words are useless. Nonschetto's duty is to be at her husband's side. I sink into darkness, but I do not sleep. Visions keep swirling through my mind. Now I see Dupré, his sly smile. I know that Nonschetto believes the French are good friends to the Indian. She claims that, unlike the English, the French treat the Indian with respect. But ... Dupré called me “white squaw.” He left me alone with Tiger Claw, knowing what might happen. “Do not trust the Frenchman,” I finally think to tell Nonschetto.

No answer comes. I open my eyes. The door flap is closed on this empty hut. Nonschetto is gone.