The Beaded Moccasins (3 page)

Anyway, there would be days and days like this one to come. "Strawberry summer days," I say out loud. My tongue is still burning from all the berries I have eaten. "Not blueberry days, not peach days, not apple days. Strawberry summer days."

Still famished, I eat a lot more berries. Too late, I notice the strawberry stains down the front of my new dress.

The breeze off the river dies, the trees, the birds, even time itself seem to stand perfectly still.

An odd-shaped shadow splays in front of me-a many-headed darkness with shadow feathers sticking out around the top. Cooler air sets me to shivering. The hair on the back of my neck stands up even as my heart starts to pound. Why? Has a cloud blocked the sun? No. But the shadow ... the feathers ... a dreadful feeling that I'm no longer alone.

My father's livestock bolt away. I hear someone gasp "Mary!" I whirl around.

Four Indians in war paint and feathers. Flies buzz around fresh scalps hanging from their belts. The Indians have a stillness to them, as though they're saving their strength.

When I stand up, one of them takes the rose bowl from my hands.

"Oh, Mary," Mrs. Stewart cries out. Her face is chalk white with terror. Two-year-old Sammy Stewart is in her arms, stirring in his sleep.

"We walk," one of the Indians says calmly.

They're dressed in breechcloths and deerskin leggings. Braided hair hangs all the way down their backs. Red paint covers their faces and chests, tattoos swirl over their arms and legs. Copper and silver earrings hang to their shoulders.

"We just came from our farm," Mrs. Stewart cries out. "Our farm in flames! And Mr. Stewart away deer hunting!"

She's right, I think. Deer hunting-my father won't be home until dark.

I hear a roaring sound from the river. Smoke is billowing over the trees. My mother! My brother! Our cabin in flames! A fifth Indian runs across my father's pasture while the livestock trot clumsily out of his way.

"We walk," the first one says, urgently this time. He's older than the others, with iron-gray hair. I take a step backward and then another. I glance toward the forest.

All of them reach into their belts and take out their knives. They take them out slowly and with no malice, as though they just wanted to admire the bone handles or look at their reflections in the knife blades. As quick as smoke, two stand behind me.

"Mary, don't give them any trouble, please," Mrs. Stewart begs. "We'll be rescued. I know we will."

"My name is Mary Caroline Campbell. I live here. Th-this is our farm. I live here." If I could just explain, they might see their mistake. "My father claimed this land ... in Philadelphia. And I was named after our late queen, Queen Caroline.

"This is Mrs. Stewart and Sammy." Mrs. Stewart half drops into a curtsy, then freezes. She pulls herself upright and holds Sammy closer to her.

"We walk, Mary Caroline Campbell, named after your queen," says the older one. I notice he didn't say "our queen."

I look toward the pasture gate. The cattle are there, waiting. Our bull looks at me in mild surprise. The four cows crop grass again. Sheep run around in circles, bleating in slack-jawed sheep panic. Our chimney falls through the burning roof with a crash.

"We walk," the older one repeats.

For once, that fussy crybaby Sammy isn't crying. He's staring at them wide-eyed with his hands stuffed into his mouth. Only then do I notice that Mrs. Stewart's hands are bound together with grapevine rope. She's struggling to hold Sammy against her.

"We walk, Mary Caroline Campbell. Now."

I pick up my sunbonnet and tie the strings under my chin with trembling fingers. The old one pulls more grapevine rope from his waist pouch, and they tie my hands together too.

I start to cry. "No, please no."

The grapevine rope smells of tobacco and digs into my wrists.

One of them gives me a shove toward the forest and we walk. Just like that, we walk.

We quicken our pace in the woods. We walk past the tree into which my father chopped a tomahawk improvement to mark the end of Campbell Station. We
trot over a stream, then double back; we splash over another stream and double back again. We cross and crisscross valleys and hollows, we run up ridges and passes. Between sobs I remember every crisscross and gulley, I memorize every streambed. The older man peers deeply into my face every hour or so.

By nightfall we have been running every which way and I have no idea where we are. I feel hollow with hunger and thirst and jumpy with terror. I'm exhausted, too, and hot. I can't stop panting for breath. Nothing looks familiar. I don't even know which direction I'm facing.

The old one, the one who spoke English, holds my face by the chin and looks deeply into my eyes, as though trying to gaze into my thoughts.

He does the same thing to Mrs. Stewart. Finally, he nods and speaks to the others. They stop immediately and clear a space for a camp. They use flint and brown pine needles to start a fire.

"Sit down," he says gently. Mrs. Stewart and I fall to the ground just like the walls of Jericho.

"Please, sir," I start to sob. "Please, I want to go home." Little Sammy Stewart hears me crying and commences wailing too.

"I have been watching your face, your eyes," the old one says. "Once you were sure you could find your way back, and now you are not sure. And home is far away, to the west. I have never been there, but we have heard it's a good place. The British have ordered us to go west."

"West! No! It's ... But it's my birthday." As soon as I say it, I know how ridiculous that sounds.

"Food." The old one gives me a handful of samp-that is, cornmeal-and a drink of water from my grandmother's rose bowl. What happened to all the strawberries I picked?

One of them cuts away the rope binding our hands.

The old one says, "Food and sleep."

***

The next morning I know I've been dreaming about Fairfield, because I can almost smell it. The spicy-sweet scent of the bakeries makes my mouth water. The bready aroma of the alehouses fills my nose. I smell the molten iron from the blacksmiths' shops; a whiff of lye soap from Monday washdays almost makes me sneeze. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping I'll go back to sleep and dream more. But then I hear Mrs. Stewart moaning as she awakens. I see the five men kicking dirt into the fire to ruin evidence of our having been here. Fairfield disappears with the sunrise. It was safe there. The Indians were long gone.

Sammy Stewart refuses to eat the wet cornmeal they have given us for breakfast. Mrs. Stewart holds the meal up to his face and he shouts, "No!" with a turn of his head. "No!

"Wan' milk," he says.

"There's no milk, my darling." She holds the meal out again.

"No!"

The men pull on their knapsacks. As we commence to march, Mrs. Stewart staggers under Sammy's weight. He tries to wriggle out of her grasp and cries and cries.

Late in the morning I see a bluebird singing in a little oak tree. His bright-blue feathers are the same color as my dress and eyes. His silvery, liquid voice fills my ears with a promise: I will see my family again.

At evening the old one says something, and the others stop immediately and start a fire.

Mrs. Stewart drops Sammy to his feet. The two of them walk to a nearby creek, and she washes him and his pants.

We gather around the fire as the forest fills with darkness and mosquitoes. We eat the same thing meal after meal: cornmeal mixed with water. It always seems as though a few handfuls of samp won't be enough, but when I drink more water, it swells up in my stomach.

Even Sammy eats tonight.

I'm surprised to be so grateful for little things: sitting down at last; cold water to drink; a full stomach; I will be sleeping (and dreaming) soon. As I lie down, the forest floor feels smooth under my back. Another thing to be grateful for. Last night tree roots poked into my back till morning.

Now I can tell them apart. The old one who speaks English is their leader. The tall one always walks or sits next to him. He must speak English, too, because I know he understands what I say. The two younger ones must be brothers, they look so much alike. The fifth one has smallpox scars all over his face and body.

I doze off to sleep to the buzzing of insects. "Escape," they whisper into my ears. "Escape, escape."

I dream again but not of Fairfield. I'm at Campbell Station, sitting with my family around the hearthstones.

"Escape," the fire hisses into my ears, "escape, escape."

S
AMMY CRIES AND CRIES
, and I spend half the night tossing and turning. The next morning he drinks so much water, I think he'll burst. Mrs. Stewart's eyes are as red as her dress, and there are dark circles above her wan cheeks. When she tries to give Sammy wet cornmeal, he smacks her hand away with another "No!" The Indians stare as the samp splatters into a poison ivy patch. They glare at Sammy. Mrs. Stewart groans as she picks him up.

"Please God," she says softly, cradling Sammy's butter-bright blond head. "Please give me the strength I need today."

I say, "I'll carry him, Mrs. Stewart."

"No, Mary. You need your strength."

The Indians stamp out the fire while Mrs. Stewart hoists Sammy onto her back. She grasps his ankles, Sammy puts his arms around her neck, and we commence to march again.

Sammy whimpers a bit, then falls asleep. He must feel like dead weight on her back. His wrists must be choking her. Stooped over, Mrs. Stewart falls farther and farther behind.

It's close to noon, I reckon, and steaming hot. We are scrabbling up a steep gorge. I see a flash of Mrs. Stewart's red dress far below us.

The Indians start talking, but of course I have no idea what they're saying. The old one, the leader, says something to the big one with the smallpox scars. We stop and wait for Mrs. Stewart to catch up.

Smallpox Scars holds out his arms.

"Thank you, sir," Mrs. Stewart says wearily. Sammy tumbles, still asleep, into his arms.

Smallpox Scars takes Sammy behind a tree.

"Where are you taking him?" Mrs. Stewart calls out. She begins to follow, but the tall one holds her arm.

Smallpox Scars comes back with a scalp of baby-fine yellow hair covered in blood.

I cover my mouth to keep from shrieking.

"God in Heaven, no!" Mrs. Stewart screams when she sees the scalp. She pounds on the chest of Sammy's murderer, but Smallpox Scars just stands there stone-faced. Mrs. Stewart might as well beat on a tree trunk for all the good it does her. She collapses onto the forest floor, beats the ground with her fists, and screams and screams.

They wait patiently for her to stop. Her screams turn to moans, then sobs. Finally, Mrs. Stewart rolls into a silent ball.

"We walk," the old one says softly.

I kneel next to her and touch her arm. "Mrs. Stewart, please," I whisper. "Please don't give them any trouble." But Mrs. Stewart closes her eyes and pretends she can't hear me, the way Lady Grey did when I complained about her kittens.

The tall one lifts her to her feet.

"We walk," the old one repeats.

"I'd rather die," she croaks.

"Then die."

They pivot on their feet and walk away, the old one pushing me in front of him.

"Mrs. Stewart," I shriek. "Please don't leave me." Which sounds peculiar because I'm leaving her.

We commence to march again. I'm crying so hard, I can't see in front of me-I stumble and fall over logs and roots.

After what seems like a long time, she catches up and slips her hand in mine. "I'll never leave you," she whispers. We link arms and walk. Mrs. Stewart's hands are coated with loamy earth.

She buried Sammy, then caught up with us.

I am hungry, thirsty, footsore, heartsore, and so tired and terrified that I can't think straight. But I don't say a word. Smallpox Scars is walking ahead of me, and when I look at Sammy's tiny scalp woven into his long black braids as a decoration, and a warning, I don't dare complain about anything.

***

Mrs. Stewart stumbles forward in a daze, hour after hour, day after day. When she looks at the scrap of
scalp, I'm not even sure she knows it's Sammy's anymore.

It must be June. We have been climbing mountains day after endless day for four or five weeks now, I reckon. Sometimes we spend an entire day climbing-winding our way around treefalls, pulling one another up the steepest parts, and thrashing through the underbrush-only to find that we've made little headway by dusk.

I thought we'd be marching next to the flat creekbeds and riverbanks, but the Indians ignore the water and study the sun instead. On occasion one of them will climb a tall tree, high above the other treetops, just to get a look at it. The creeks and rivers flow south. We're following the sun, heading due west.

We're crossing the Appalachians, I think with a lump in my throat. How will my father and brother ever find us?

My new dress is a dirty, pricker-torn rag. My mother worked so hard to make this dress! I watch her neat stitches in the hems and sleeves break and unravel one by one.

Mrs. Stewart slumps to the ground for our midday meal. I must say something to her to boost her courage. At first she was trying to cheer me, but now it's the other way around.

"Not quite so hot this morning," I whisper softly. They don't like us to talk together. Her dull eyes stare into space.

This afternoon I trip and fall over a tree root. The tall one picks me up as though I am no heavier than a
barn cat. He steps on the skirt of my birthday dress, and it tears away from the back of the bodice. I feel like shriveling in embarrassment. He can see the back of my chemise as he walks behind me! But they don't even wear underwear. The five of them don't even notice.

The heat today is fierce. Before we stop for our corn-meal-and-water supper, the old one points to a creek.

"You and your friend wash here, Mary."

To be polite, I reckon, the Indians walk downstream, with their backs turned to us, every time we bathe.

"Mrs. Stewart," I whisper as we stand knee deep in the cool water, "I've been thinking. Do you think the reason we haven't been rescued is because they killed everyone else before capturing us?"