The Beaded Moccasins (4 page)

"Nonsense, Mary," Mrs. Stewart whispers back as she pulls her dress over her head. "My husband and your father were away deer hunting."

"What if they killed them in the woods? And what about my mother? My brother, Dougal?"

"Everyone's fine," she says firmly. "Mary, you must gather your courage and ask the old one. He's taken quite a shine to you. But I'm sure they're fine."

"What if Lady Grey and her kittens are all alone in the wilderness, and the other barn cats, too?" I feel worse about my family, of course, but it's the thought of Lady Grey's family that makes me cry.

"Everyone's fine, Mary. Cats are very resourceful, nine lives and all that. The woods are full of mice and chipmunks."

"Lady Grey must wonder where I am. What if she was hurt and her kittens are starving? I used to play with them every day," I sob. "She was so proud of her kittens. She wouldn't let anyone else pet them, just me."

"Mary." Mrs. Stewart takes a deep breath. "Surely you would recognize the hair of your parents and brother. Surely you've studied the ... remains slung through their belts?"

"If our folks were killed, they'd have their scalps. Is that what you mean, Mrs. Stewart?"

My brother has reddish-brown hair like mine. Both my parents are long since gray. And Mr. Stewart has hair as red as a new penny. All the scalps slung through their belts are black.

"They're taking scalps because of the war with France," Mrs. Stewart says grimly. "At least we're not French."

"But what about Sammy?" My question hangs in the air like the steamy summer heat.

I dry my eyes. Mrs. Stewart flails her dress across the water.

"They didn't kill our livestock," I say hopefully.

We stop in the evening to eat more samp. It must be July, I tell myself. It's so hot and muggy, it's like breathing into a singing teakettle.

The underbrush tangles around my ankles. Pricker bushes and stinging nettles hurt my legs. I look longingly at their leather leggings. A pretty birthday dress is no match for leggings.

I sit next to the old one. I take a deep breath and, before I lose my courage, I ask him, "Who are you? I mean, what kind of Indians are you?"

He looks at me and smiles. "Unami. Part of the Delaware."

"Delaware!" I scream. "Delaware!"

My father used to say they're the worst, the worst of the lot. Worse than the Iroquois, even worse than the Shawnee. Once the Delaware lived along the Atlantic Ocean, as far north as New York, as far south as Virginia. But one hundred fifty years of warfare with us have turned the Delaware into pitiless murderers.

"Please sir," I cry. Mrs. Stewart pats my hand. The Indians sit in a circle, waiting for me to finish crying. And finish I will, of course; no one can cry forever.

"I won't breathe a word, on my honor," I sob. "I'll say I got l-lost in the w-wilderness. I won't say anything about you if you'll just take me home."

As I weep and wail, the forest around us becomes quieter and quieter. Maybe the birds and animals have never heard a person crying before.

The old one sits very still. He doesn't tell me to hush up; he sits and waits. Finally, I stop.

"You don't understand, Mary Caroline Campbell. You're to be given as a present to our king, our sachem, Netawatwees Sachem. His granddaughter has died. You will replace her."

He pulls samp out of his waist pouch. "We eat now."

"I want to go home," I say softly. No one even answers.

We are on the march again before I remember that I
was going to ask the old one if my family is still alive.

The next day one of the brothers has a deep cut in his foot, so we rest for the afternoon. The other brother strips a piece of bark off a willow tree and pounds the inner bark into a powder. He adds a bit of water to make a paste. His brother winces in pain as he lies down. He chews some of the paste and pulls a face.

"We have no cranberries," the old one tells me. "Cranberries are good medicine. Good medicine to eat, good medicine to use on the skin. Willow bark stops pain, but it does not help the healing."

I take a deep breath and my heart starts pounding. "What happened to my family?"

"They are well," he replies.

They are well.

"...and are waiting for you on the banks of the Allegheny."

"No, the Campbells, I mean." I hold my breath.

"The Allegheny..."

"They were killed? You killed them?" I ask in a low voice.

"No." He looks at me coldly. "Your family is waiting."

***

Tonight they smear something greasy on my face, neck, ears, and arms. Clouds of mosquitoes buzz around me but don't light. The grease must keep them away.

Why are there so many mosquitoes now? On this side of the mountains the earth is different-level, soft, and damp. Are we closer to the Allegheny? When will I see the Susquehanna again?

I lie awake and scold myself.
This is your fault, Mary. That rumpus on your birthday morning, that's why you're here now. These Delaware heard you shouting. How could you have been so stupid? Why were you all alone in the pasture? Why didn't you run?

A tree root digs into the small of my back. Recriminations buzz stubbornly around and around my head for most of the night, just like the mosquitoes.

The next morning I awake to what feels like tree bark rubbing my cheek. It is the old one, touching my face with his rough palm.

"We walk after eating."

After a breakfast of cornmeal and water we're on the march again.

I can tell no British have ever lived in these woods. There are no farms, no roads, no inns, no taverns, no blacksmith shops. There are no fences. Just trees-as big around as fireplaces and taller than church steeples. The trees are so dense, we can't see the sun. We walk day after day in a greenish, leaf-cloyed haze. When it rains, I hear thunder rolling and crashing above us, but under our thick canopy of trees the rain is as gentle as mist.

And the animals! Bright birds fly from tree to tree, so far up they look like tiny wildflowers caught in the wind. Squirrels and chipmunks scold us from high in the tree-tops. Once we see a dozing bear with two cubs sleeping by her feet. Does and tiny fawns nip at the grass growing in the glades.

One day we see a fox with a stick in his mouth walk slowly into a creek. The brothers smile at each other
and kneel behind a log to watch. The old one sees me frowning and explains softly, "He has tiny insects in his fur. Watch how a clever fox gets rid of them."

As the fox walks slowly into the water, I can see the fleas jump higher and higher onto his back. Finally his head is black with fleas, his eyes narrowed to slits because of the teeming insects. Now some of them are jumping onto the stick the fox has in his mouth. When the fox is entirely in the water with just his nose and teeth showing, and all the fleas are on the stick-he lets go of the stick! The flea-covered stick rushes downstream.

I swear the fox is laughing as he climbs out onto the bank. He shakes his fur, gives himself a few quick licks, and trots into the forest again.

Except for Mrs. Stewart, we all smile together. Even Smallpox Scars gives me a quick grin.

We march. At dusk we sit down to eat again.

"Tomorrow we'll be at our village," the old one announces. "Perhaps our sachem's granddaughter and Mrs. Stewart have to go into the creek to prepare for tomorrow."

He looks at me steadily.

"Oh," I say shortly. "Thank you."

Mrs. Stewart and I follow the creek downstream a bit to a deep pool and drape our ragged clothes on the bushes. We sit in the water and scrub our skin with sand and pebbles. I let the clean water run over my sweat-soaked hair.

My clothes are stiff with dried sweat and dirt. When
I step out of the creek, I dip my chemise and what is left of my dress into the current and put them on still wet. I find a calm pool the size of a soup crock and gently scrub my lace collar between my hands.

"Mrs. Stewart, the old one seems certain Netawatwees Sachem will want me as a granddaughter. Why? It's as though they went out looking for a granddaughter. I don't understand."

"I don't know, Mary. All I can think about is my little Sammy in heaven and my dear husband," she says sadly. She braids my long hair and ties the ends with strips of shredded hem.

I turn around to face her. "We could escape," I say softly.

Mrs. Stewart turns as white as a dogwood blossom. "Don't say that word ever again. They might understand your intentions."

"But—"

She takes my hand. "Honey, we'd be roasted alive at the stake if we're caught. Do you want that?"

All my life I've overheard adults whispering about the stake. Until now I'd always wondered why a captive would take such a foolish, deadly risk. Now I know.

"I want to go home."

"Compare the two evils, Mary-remain alive among them as a prisoner or die a cruel death if retaken. Which do you want?"

"I want to go home."

"If we can just wait until we're rescued—"

"Mrs. Stewart, I'll give you a signal." With the speed
of greased lightning, I give my left earlobe a tug with my right hand. "That means it's safe to try an escape."

"Oh, Mary—"

"Promise me you'll come with me. Promise me we'll try:;

"I promise you I'll think about your intentions. That's the best I can do."

L
ATE NEXT MORNING WE ARRIVE
. We turn left at a huge buckeye tree, and I see twenty or twenty-five wigwams near a swift river. Women are washing bowls on the riverbank. A swarm of children are swimming close to shore.

Near the wigwams huge pots hang on tripods above cook fires. Hovering above the caldrons is steam so savory it makes my stomach hurt. I'm ravenously hungry for food, any food as long as it isn't samp.

"Allegheny?" I ask.

The old one nods.

Just then a tall, graceful woman holding two gourds steps out of a wigwam and comes toward us. "That's your mother, Hepte," the old one says. "Her name means Swan."

My mother?

The woman nods to us and gives the old one, then the tall one, each a gourd. The gourds are filled with water.

"This is your father, Coquetakeghton," the old one continues, pointing to the tall one. He drinks a little water from his gourd and gives it back. "In English his name is White Eyes."

That's easy, I think, looking at the tall one as if for the first time. White Eyes. But of course he's not really my father.

Women step away from the cook fires and come toward us. Several bring fragrant, steaming bowls of soup to the old one. I look hungrily at the soup bowls brimming with meat and vegetables. The old one sips a little soup from each bowl, smiles as he says something, and gives the bowl back.

"Netawatwees Sachem," one of the women says.

"You!" I shout. "You are Netawatwees Sachem?"

"Granddaughter." He gives me the same smile he gave to the women. "Welcome home."

Netawatwees Sachem's wigwam is bigger than the others. People crowd inside, their backs pressing against the bark-and-sapling walls, their faces lit up orange in the firelight. His daughter, Hepte, passes around bowls of soup to everyone. I reckon there must not be a Mrs. Netawatwees Sachem. Hepte gives Mrs. Stewart and me our bowls of soup last. As Hepte hands me my bowl, she says something to me in a soft voice.

I devour the soup. My grubby fingers slop steaming venison, carrots, and wild onions into my mouth as fast
as they can. When I'm finished, Hepte gives me a bowlful of hot water and motions for me to wash my face with it. The wigwam, stuffed with sweating bodies, is stifling—but the hot water on my face feels like heaven. Mosquito grease melts off my face and hands like tallow off a rock in June.

As I wash, I hear them talking. The same words come up over and over. "Cuyahoga Sipi," "Tuscawaras Sipi," and "Oyo Hoking." Every time someone says "Oyo Hoking," they shout at each other, the women shouting just as loudly as the men. When Netawatwees Sachem speaks, the rest fall silent. He says "Oyo Hoking" more than anyone. They ignore Mrs. Stewart and me and talk far into the afternoon.

I nod off to sleep with the word "Oyo" in my ears. Someone lowers me to the ground and tucks a blanket around my shoulders.

The next day, for the first time since leaving Connecticut, I don't have anything to do. Mostly I stay in the wigwam, sleeping and hoping to dream of happier times in Fairfield. Instead, I dream of Campbell Station. I see my family sitting around the table, worrying me with questions: "
What's the date, Mary?" "What's the month?" "Why haven't you come back to us, Mary?
"

"
Is it September?
" I reply. They shake their heads sadly when my answer fails to satisfy.

"August?" I moan. "I don't know anymore-"

I awaken with a pounding heart.

Hepte's little daughter is sitting almost on top of me. She points at me and laughs.

"Go away," I say crossly. "Let me be."

She laughs again. While pointing to her heart, she jabbers something unpronounceable. I reckon she's trying to tell me her name.

"Leave me alone."

She laughs and leans closer.

I pull away, get up, and go outside to look for Mrs. Stewart. Hepte's daughter runs ahead of me. She jumps boldly from side to side, chattering while trying to snatch away my sunbonnet.

I point to a chickadee, perched not two feet away on a tree branch and scolding us brazenly.

"That's a chickadee." I point to Hepte's daughter. "You ... a chickadee."

The little girl glows with delight. She twirls on her toes and to my astonishment does a perfect imitation of a chickadee's call.

"Chicka-dee-dee-dee. Chicka-dee-dee-dee."

"That's your name, then. Chickadee."

***

When I awaken a few mornings later, I'm looking at the sun. The wigwam is gone. Other wigwams are being folded up and lashed together with grapevines.

"You are awake," Netawatwees Sachem says softly. "We have been waiting for you to rest after our march. We are going into the Oyo Hoking. What the British call the Ohio Territory. They guarantee we will be safe there, and we have no choice but to believe them.