Indian Captive (24 page)

Molly went to her bunk and came back with a finished moccasin in one hand, a large half-circular piece of deerskin and several smaller pieces in the other.

“Wouldn’t you like a blue homespun gown better than either broadcloth or deerskin?” asked Josiah, softly.

Molly’s eyes filled with tears. “Of course I would—if I could have it. But if I have to live with the Indians, I might as well dress like them. Beaver Girl and Star Flower have beautiful cloth gowns and I thought …” Molly fell into silence as she set a bowl filled with colored porcupine quills on the ground.

“Are these quills from my porcupine, Corn Tassel?” asked Turkey Feather eagerly.

“Yes, they are,” answered Molly. She sat down on a mat, picked up a piece of deer sinew and started to work. “Moccasins are easier to make than I thought they would be,” she went on. “They are cut in one piece and held in gathers over the toe. The flaps at the top are cut separately and so is the pointed patch in front. I’m working designs on these small pieces now.”

“See!” cried Turkey Feather, happily. “In what beautiful colors you have dyed the quills!”

“I helped Grandmother Red Bird,” said Molly. “We used blood-root and sumac for the orange and red ones, yellow-root for the yellow, and butternut hulls for the black. Before I embroider with them, I soak them in water and flatten them with this bone. It’s not much like sewing because I don’t use a needle. I have to make holes in the deerskin with this awl and push the sinew through, fastening the quills at each end and bending them over to hide the fastening.”

“The quills will make your moccasins and your new gown very beautiful, will they not?” asked Turkey Feather. “Porcupine quill embroidery is much more beautiful than bead-work, is it not? If your new gown were broadcloth, you could not use the quills, could you?”

“No, I couldn’t,” said Molly, thoughtfully. Then she looked up, smiling.

The Indian boys enthusiasm was infectious. Suddenly she was ashamed that she had wanted a cloth gown so much. Deerskin
was
good enough and Turkey Feather’s quills were more beautiful than any beads.

“Your quills will make my new gown beautiful,” she said to the Indian boy. Then she explained to Josiah: “I’m glad it’s to be deerskin, after all. It means so much to Turkey Feather—he brought me the porcupine. When I first came to live with the Indians, I hated the sight of deerskin—even the touch of it. But I’m used to it now. It’s more practical than cloth, especially in the woods. It doesn’t soil easily nor tear on sharp thorns and branches. I am sure Squirrel Woman knows best—a girl should learn how to embroider with porcupine quills before she tries beads.”

“He was a fighter, this old porky was!” Turkey Feather exclaimed with delight. “Grandfather Shagbark said it would be easy. He told me just to go out and hit him with a club.”

“An arrow wouldn’t get a chance in his prickly hide, I suppose,” said Molly.

“All you need is a stout club,” said Turkey Feather. “Grandfather says a porky never throws its quills, but I can tell you he puts them in everything he touches. When I hit him on the snout he didn’t even feel it. Then I hit him again and he switched his tail back and forth, filling everything in sight with quills—the club, tree trunks and everything he could reach with that tail. What a fighter he was! Then all at once he rolled over dead, and I brought him to you.

Proudly Turkey Feather watched the design grow under Molly’s busy fingers, as she fastened down one quill after another. “The moccasins will be beautiful,” said the Indian boy. “May they make Corn Tassel’s path an easier one.”

Even Josiah looked on with a show of interest. “Do you like doing it?” he asked.

“Better than I ever liked sewing at home,” confessed Molly. “I always left my seams for Betsey to finish and ran outdoors to be with Pa. Betsey was such a good sister.” Molly was surprised to find that for the first time she could talk of her family calmly.

“Your Ma would be surprised if she could see you now, wouldn’t she?” asked Josiah.

“Yes,” said Molly, “but pleased too I think. I can sit still easier than I used to. The Indians have taught me that—and so many other things. I never thought I’d like to sit still and do embroidery, but I do. The Indian designs always mean something—whether quill work or bead work. Did you know that?” She pointed to the designs outlined on the deerskin.

“The half-circle resting upon two straight lines is the sky-dome resting upon the earth,” she explained. “The little curly sprig on top is the celestial tree. Here are the sleeping sun and the sun awake. These lines that curl inward mean sleep or death. The Indians have so many ideas that never occur to the white people.”

“How do you like your new comb and brush, Corn Tassel?” asked Turkey Feather.

Molly ran to her bed, lifted the top and took them out. “See, Josiah, Turkey Feather made them from the porcupine’s tail,” she explained. “I comb and brush my hair with them every day.”

“I never knew that a porcupine was good for anything except gnawing hemlock trees,” said Josiah, chuckling.

“Then you’ll be surprised to hear that there is a woman sitting in the moon, embroidering with porcupine quills!” exclaimed Molly.

“Is there?” laughed Josiah. “What next? Who told you?”

“Earth Woman told me,” replied Molly. “Near the woman there is a bright fire and over the fire hangs a clay pot with succotash boiling in it. By the woman’s side sits a large dog that always keeps his eyes on her. Sometimes she gets up, lays aside her work and stirs the food in the pot. While she is doing this, the dog unravels her work.”

“Then what happens?” asked Josiah, eagerly.

“The same thing happens over and over again,” Molly went on. “As fast as the woman embroiders, the dog unravels. If she could finish her work, or if she ever does, the end of the world will come that instant.”

“Good!” laughed Josiah. “Earth Woman has it all figured out, hasn’t she?” Then he added in a low voice: “You don’t seem to think about home as much as you did, Molly. I don’t like to hear you repeating these Indian tales and talking about wanting red broadcloth leggings and a fancy gown with beads on it—so you will look like the Indian girls. You are not getting to like the Indians too well, are you?”

“Oh, no!” laughed Molly. “Of course when you know and understand them, you can’t help liking the Indians. But it’s not that. I shall never like them better than the white people. It’s just that since you’ve come, Josiah, I’ve been much more contented living with them. Before, I had nobody to talk to and now I have you.”

The bear-robe flap was lifted and Squirrel Woman entered.

“There she comes!” whispered Molly. “She doesn’t like for me to talk English to a pale-face. She always suspects I am trying to get away.” She closed her lips tightly and bent over her work.

Red Bird and Earth Woman came in from the adjoining room. Wooden bowls filled with steaming hominy were passed around. The two captives ate in silence, as Squirrel Woman crouched on the ground not far off. Molly looked at Josiah from time to time and wondered what he was thinking. As the women on the other side of the fire began to talk in low tones, she listened carefully. But she did not speak until Squirrel Woman went outdoors for firewood.

“Red Bird says the hunters are late,” said Molly, interpreting. “They should have been back several weeks ago. All our meat supply is gone and so is Earth Woman’s. They say the other families have none left. They are all eating hominy every day and if they keep on, the corn will be gone before it is time for the fresh crop to be ripe. Panther Woman is putting all the villagers on short allowance. We are to have our bowls only half full from now on. Earth Woman says she can find some good roots in the woods to help out.”

“How can she dig them when the ground is frozen?” asked Josiah, gruffly.

“I don’t know,” replied Molly. “Shining Star says she had a dream last night. First she heard children crying, then she saw deer tracks in the snow. It’s clear they are worried. They say that when the men return from the winter hunting-trip, there’s to be a great feast—a nine-day celebration for everybody.”

“But in the meantime we starve, eh?” burst out Josiah, bitterly. “That’s the way the Indians manage. The white people do better than that.”

“Perhaps we can get used to being hungry,” said Molly, slowly. “If only I could be as cheerful as the Indians about it. They are accustomed to such things, I suppose.”

As Squirrel Woman returned to her place, Josiah rose abruptly and put on his cap.

“Oh, are you going?” cried Molly. “I thought you were staying for the evening.”

“Why should I stay?” asked Josiah, crossly.

“The story-teller is coming,” replied Molly, “and there will be a big crowd. Shining Star says his stories are wonderful to hear. The Indians have stories the white people never dream of. You would like them.”

“I’m more interested in meat than in stories!” growled Josiah.

“The story-teller comes only in winter,” Molly went on hastily. “As soon as the buds open on the trees the stories are hushed, because then the spirits of nature are awake….”

But Josiah was not listening,
“Where are you going?”
cried Molly. She rose suddenly, dropping her bowl and ladle upon the ground. Wild panic seized her. The look in Josiah’s eyes was desperate. She watched him speak to Turkey Feather and she saw the two start for the door.

“Don’t worry, Molly!” called Josiah. “Just trust me if you can. Once more I’m going to ask that lazy Log-in-the-Water for his gun.”

“You’re not…”

“Don’t worry!” begged Josiah. He lifted the flap at the door and stepped outside.

“Whew! Molly!” he called back, poking his head in again. “The snow’s coming down harder than ever. We will be buried alive here till spring, that’s certain.”

Molly’s impulse was to rush but and follow him, but she stayed where she was. Left alone, all her happiness faded. What if he should start for Virginia without her? She knew that if he made up his mind to go, even the snow would not keep him. But how could
she
travel in the snow, in freezing weather like this?

With the light gone from her eyes and her spirit she watched the people come into Red Bird’s lodge. All the holes and open places in the bark walls had been tightly stuffed with moss, and the six fires along the middle of the central hallway were constantly fed by the women with fresh supplies of dry wood. Still it was cold. Each time the flap was lifted, a breath of icy air was admitted. She shivered and pulled a wool blanket close about her shoulders.

The crowd waited expectantly as night closed in. At last a shout was heard outside and all the children ran to the door.

“Dajoh,
enter! Enter!” they cried, in great excitement. “Hosk-wi-sä-onh, the story-teller, has come!”

A tall, dark man entered and threw off his blanket. He was dressed in deerskin leggings and overshirt, embroidered with colored moose hair. His silver-banded cap was trimmed with the usual cluster of drooping feathers, topped by an eagle feather set in a socket to twirl. He carried two bags, one for pipe and tobacco and the other filled with mysterious lumps.

Red Bird stepped quietly forward and placed a bench by the fire. Other women spread corn-husk mats on the ground. The crowd gathered close at the man’s feet.

The story-teller took his bear-bowled pipe from his pouch and filled it carefully with tobacco. A small boy ran up, took the pipe to the fire and placed a hot coal upon it, then returned it to the man’s hand. He smoked peacefully. After a moment he threw a pinch of tobacco upon the fire and said a prayer to the unseen spirits.

“Hoh!”
he exclaimed. “What story shall I tell you? Let us see.”

He plunged his hand into his second bag, which was filled with an array of objects selected to remind him of his stories—shells, bear teeth, strings of wampum, feathers, bark dolls, bears’ tusks and animals’ claws. Slowly he drew forth a small, round, smooth stone.

“Hoh!”
he cried. “The story-telling stone! This is a story about a stone. Listen, my children, while the fire burns red and the shadows come and go like mighty giants and I will tell you the story of the story-telling stone.