Indian Captive (19 page)

Chipmunk was young and slim, younger even than Little Turtle. Bravely Chipmunk picked up a dead branch and shook it. He jumped toward the bear, to frighten it away. Then gradually he backed up, as the mother bear approached the hollow maple tree where her cubs were. Molly ran to the other side and so did Chipmunk. The tree was wide enough to hide them from sight.

Chipmunk thought fast. He remembered Woodchuck’s boasting that they would take the bear and the cub. But Woodchuck had run away. How could Chipmunk do it? Still waving the stick, he peered round the tree again. Molly looked, too. To their surprise they saw that the mother bear was running off, her cubs following. There were two of them, big, fat and roly-poly. Chipmunk and Molly stared after them in silence. Soon they were lost to sight in the dense woods.

The children came back at Chipmunk’s call. They looked in at the bed of dry grass in the empty hole in the tree where the cubs had been. Then Earth Woman and Beaver Girl came up. The children all talked at once, telling the exciting story.

“The mother bear was more scared than we were,” cried Chipmunk. “Why didn’t you kill her, Woodchuck?”

Woodchuck did not answer. He was still scowling.

“She had two fine cubs!” cried Star Flower. “And we didn’t get one of them.”

Earth Woman shook her head. “A mother bear is a dangerous animal,” she said. “If you had tried to take one of her cubs, she would have started fighting. You had no weapons with you. It is best she ran away with her cubs.”

“We have lost our pets!” cried the children, sadly.

“The cubs have no ropes about their necks,” said Molly to herself. “They are still free. I’m glad they are not captives.”

“H
ERE, KEEP THESE FOR
me!” Little Turtle dropped a few arrows on the ground beside Molly, who sat hidden under a clump of bushes in the forest. “I think the turkeys will soon be coming down to the river to drink.”

Little Turtle walked cautiously into the woods again. He sat down upon a log and remained as motionless as possible. Then he began to sound his call on a turkeybone, imitating the get-together notes of the wild turkey, the way Shagbark had taught him: “
Keow-keow-kee-kee-keow! Keow-keow-kee-kee-keow!”

Molly felt sure that no turkey would recognize it as a human cry. She did not have long to wait. A flock of wild turkeys came hopping and running through the woods, gobbling noisily.

Little Turtle held his breath as he picked out a bird and took aim. Putting his arrow to the bow string, he drew it and sent it flying.
Whizz!
The arrow hit the biggest gobbler square in the breast. After running a few yards with drooping wings, the bird tumbled over. Out from the bushes jumped Little Turtle. He picked the bird up by the neck and swung it round. Then he brought it over to Molly.

The rest of the flock had long since flown up into the trees and disappeared.

“I got him!” said Little Turtle, proudly. “I won’t need the other arrows. You can carry them.”

Molly clutched them tightly in her hand. Slowly the boy and girl walked back to the village.

“I expect Shagbark will have my new bow and arrows ready for me today,” said Little Turtle. “He will be pleased to learn that I brought down a turkey with my first shot.” The boy looked up at Molly and smiled happily. “I shall throw this bow and those blunt arrows away,” he went on. “I shall never use them again.”

All at once he noticed that Corn Tassel had not spoken. He looked into her face and saw how sober it was.

“What have I done to make you feel sad, Corn Tassel?” he asked. “Shagbark says that we should do no harm and bring no sadness to anyone. He says if we can make a person happy, we should do so. If we pass a stranger in the road, we should cheer him with a word of greeting before we pass on.”

Molly looked down at the ground and said nothing.

“You need not speak,” said Little Turtle. “I know what troubles you. You remember your loved ones always and you cannot forget them. In Seneca Town, I asked Chief Standing Pine to send you home to the pale-faces, but he said it was not possible. If I thought it would help any, I would speak to Chief Burning Sky.”

“No—don’t!” begged Molly. “I knew from the first you understood my trouble. It never leaves me, no matter where I go or what I do—but just now, it is the turkey that makes me sad.”

“What!” cried Little Turtle, holding up his prize. “You are not happy then that I have killed this fine fat gobbler? The whole village will rejoice and tell me what a fine hunter I am. You are not happy that all the people in my mother’s lodge will dip their bread in turkey gravy tomorrow?

“It made me feel sick to see it die!” confessed Molly, in a whisper. “Oh, why did you ask me to come with you to the woods?”

“Hoh!”
cried Little Turtle, puzzled. “That I do not understand. The spirits of the animals go up to the sky. ’Tis only their bodies we kill. Indian girls—Beaver Girl, Star Flower and the others—none of them weep. Do the pale-faces, then, never kill animals for food? Is a pale-faced girl different from Indian girls that it makes her feel sick?”

“This
pale-face is different,” said Molly. “Corn Tassel can only weep to see a bird suffer pain.”

“Weeping is weakness,” replied Little Turtle, sternly. “To be sick is weakness. To refrain from weeping is to gain in strength. Indian girls must be strong and well-hardened.”

“But I am not an Indian girl!” Molly broke out, indignant. “I shall never be an Indian girl as long as I live!”

Old Shagbark was working busily, as usual, surrounded by his finished handiwork—bark barrels, wooden bowls, carved pipes and ladles. In his hand he held an arrow-point of flint. With a piece of deer antler he flaked it on the palm of his hand. The two children watched him in silence.

Soon he laid down the piece of deer antler and picked up a red willow shaft which had been smoothed with sandstone. With deer sinew he bound the arrow head fast to the shaft. Then he held it up.

“My son,” he announced solemnly, “you may have your arrows feathered with the best eagle or hawk, feathers, whichever you prefer, and dyed whatever color you choose.”

“Feathers are useful,” said Little Turtle, thoughtfully, “to make the arrow fly straight to the mark. But eagle feathers I do not care for, and hawk feathers are not to my liking. Could I not have turkey feathers, Grandfather?”

“Turkey feathers?” asked Shagbark, with all the appearance of surprise and a touch of anger. “Where, then, would we get turkey feathers, may I ask?”

“Here!” cried Little Turtle. With a proud, bold gesture, he lifted up the bird which he had killed and held it in the air.

“Oh ho!” laughed Shagbark. “So now I see! Where did the big, fat turkey come from, may I ask?”

With pride and delight, Little Turtle told his story and to please him, Shagbark fastened turkey feathers in their natural color to the end of first one arrow shaft, then another.

“When your arrows fly through the air,” said Shagbark, smiling, “they will sing always the song of the wild turkey. Through the air your arrows will go singing
gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gup!”

Little Turtle pulled two long tail feathers from his turkey. Then he brought out his cap. “Please, Grandfather, could you not fix them in a socket on top of my cap, so that they will turn in the wind?”

“What splendid ideas fly through this young hunters mind!” cried Shagbark, attaching the feathers as requested. When it was done, the boy put the cap on his head. “At night I will hang my feathered cap on the wall over my couch,” he exclaimed, happily, “but as soon as morning comes, I will put it on my head.”

“Your name is no longer Little Turtle!” announced Shagbark, picking up the turkey and weighing it in his hands. “From now on, your name shall be Turkey Feather for the turkey feathers from your first turkey which you wear in your cap.”

“My happiness would be great, Grandfather,” said the boy, “except for one thing. Corn Tassel weeps because the turkey is dead.”

Shagbark turned to Molly, who had said no word since she came in. He drew her to one side and asked, “What lies heavy on your heart, little one?”

Molly gulped, then spoke haltingly: “It is good for Little Turtle…to have turkey feathers on his arrows…to make them go faster. It is good for him to have turkey feathers…to wear in his cap. But…oh, why did he have to kill the turkey? Its feathers were shining so brightly even in the dark forest and it was so happy, running fast to the river to get a drink of water. It only wanted to go on living and to have a drink of water. But after the arrow hit it, its wings began flopping and it fell over and died.”

“I see what troubles you,” said Old Shagbark, full of sympathy, “and I believe I can help you. An Indian never kills for the sake of seeing an animal die. Hunting is not a game—it is a necessity. A hunter kills only when meat is needed. Before killing, he asks permission of the animal’s spirit, telling it that its body is needed for the good of the people. To the moose or bear, the hunter says in a low voice, ‘Brother Moose. Brother Bear, I am sorry to take your life, but I need your flesh for food and your hide for clothing. It is your turn to die; some day it will be mine.’ Afterwards, when he ties the tail or a tuft of hair to the twig of a tree, he offers the spirit his thanks.

“The wild creatures are our brothers and even the dangerous ones are not molested unless they make an attack. Little Turtle or Turkey Feather, as we shall now call him, will take the turkey to his mother. It will make a fine meal for all the members of his mother’s family.”

Shagbark looked at Molly and still saw sadness on her face.

“The Great Spirit has told the Senecas they may kill only enough animals for their food and clothing and no more,” said the old man. “If the children of the forest had no meat, they would die. He placed his children in the forest and he gave them the animals for their food.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Molly, unhappily, “but…but it still makes me feel sick inside.” Then she lifted her chin and cried out boldly: “It is not weakness to hate to see a cruel deed, as Little Turtle says. It is not bravery to make oneself hard and unfeeling and to close one’s eyes to suffering. It is braver far to hate the sight of another’s pain. You call the animals your brothers…and yet you deny them the right to live…The animal’s life is as dear to him as ours to us. It makes me weep to see an animal die. I will not be strong and hard like an Indian girl. I am not ashamed of my tears—I would save the animal’s life if I could…”