back and forth from his father to mine,
to Toontwa, to me.
JAMES
Old Raccoon says, We need salt, and I reach for the salt scoop,
but Pa’s next words slap my hand out of the air as fast as if he’d
reached out and grabbed it: No more salt, he says to Old Raccoon.
Pa is lying? Even Toontwa is tall enough to see that the salt barrel
is more than halfway full. Old Raccoon stares right down into it.
When he looks back up at Pa, it’s a short glance. He doesn’t smile.
Mink doesn’t give me maple sugar, or call me myaamiinse.
They pick up their furs and walk straight out the door. Anikwa
glances at the jar of licorice sticks, but not at me, as they walk out,
and he and his whole family start down the trail toward Kekionga.
After they leave, I can’t look at Pa. I’ve never heard him lie before.
Then he says, No need to tell your mother about that. So—he knows
Ma wouldn’t like this. We’ll need this salt, he says. Who does Pa mean
by “we”? Our family couldn’t use this much salt in a hundred years.
ANIKWA
Father
walks fast when he’s mad,
stepping over a fallen log like it’s a stick.
I climb up on the log, jump down,
half run, trying to keep up.
He slows down some,
walks like each step
is a drumbeat. Two ducks fly by.
He aims his rifle, lowers it. Better not waste
my ammunition, he says. I might need it for something
bigger. After a while, I ask, Why don’t we go get our own salt?
You could show Toontwa and me where to find it. Father doesn’t answer
right away. He walks beside me in the rain, searching for words.
Every treaty says the same thing, he begins. They give us
permission to use our land like we always have—
“as long as the grasses grow and rivers flow.”
We still have the right to use our trails.
We know where the salt licks are.
But now it’s dangerous
for us to travel in our own country.
The new settlers don’t know our trails, or where
we’re going, or why. He stands still, watching the river.
Does it look to you, he asks, like siipiiwi
has stopped flowing?
THE DEER’S HEART
At
the salt lick,
an arrow hits its target.
The heart of the deer
stops beating. The deer falls.
Blood slows in its veins,
muscle-bound or flowing
onto salt-crusted
earth.
JAMES
Six soldiers walk into the trading post. We’ve come to move provisions
to the fort, says Mr. Briggs. Pa helps carry the salt barrel to their wagon.
They’re taking everything: rifles, ammunition, pots and pans, traps,
spoons, ladles, cloth, nails, needles, licorice, flour, oatmeal, beans, boots.
What’s going on? I ask. They want us to close the trading post, Pa answers,
for a week or so. Isaac came in with the soldiers—I thought he came to see
me. Turns out he’s here to help. James, he says, give me a hand with this
bag of oats. We lift it and carry it outside. It’s raining, but the soldiers
aren’t complaining, so I don’t either. One of them—his name is Rupert—
lifts a big bag of flour and tosses it in the wagon like it’s no weight at all.
I act like I know all about this, but when Isaac whispers, Did you hear?
I don’t answer. The siege is about to start, he says. Hundreds of Indians
are coming to Kekionga. We have to stay inside the fort until the army gets here.
No one knows how long it will last. Could be a few days—or it might be weeks.
ANIKWA
It’s raining.
Like everyone in Kekionga,
we’ve invited people we don’t know
to stay with us. The man we saw
standing in the hole is here.
He’s Ojibwe—Father
remembers him
from the Greenville treaty-signing,
and tells us the man’s name means “Brings In Light.”
It’s true—light from the fire bounces off his face and shines on us.
Wedaase is here, too, sitting beside Father, telling everyone about the time
he saw me with James. He asks if I’m a spy for the Americans. (Does he mean it?)
My face turns hot, and Father answers for me: We trust James and his family.
His mother has always been kind to us. She took care of Anikwa’s mother
when we were too sick to care for her ourselves. Ever since, we’ve
called her Sister. James is like a cousin to our children.
Wedaase says, Be careful, friend. That kind
of cousin can turn his back on you
when you need him most.
Father looks at Wedaase, then at me.
Is he remembering the kindness Mrs. Gray showed
my mother long ago, or is he thinking about the other day,
when Mr. Gray looked at the floor and said,
No more salt?
JAMES
Oatmeal for lunch again? Two raisins each for me and Ma, three for Pa.
Same as we had for lunch and breakfast yesterday! I’m sick of oatmeal.
Why can’t we have bread and cheese for lunch? I ask. Ma looks at Pa. Don’t
complain, he says. (I didn’t complain—I only asked.) We have to make
our provisions last. (For how long?) He’s already told me we can’t go out
hunting or fishing “until this is over with.” I look at my feet, and Molly’s,
thinking about the moccasins Mink makes, and the socks Ma knits
for our Miami friends. Not just trading, more like friends or relatives.
Ma’s being quiet. Could I talk to Pa about what Isaac said? Pa, I say,
Isaac says the Indians are on the British side. I thought they were on ours.
He answers: They’re coming here from all around—we don’t know them all.
It’s hard to say who our friends are. Ma looks out the doorway. Dark clouds
are gathering behind the flag. As long as we have no evidence to the contrary,
she says, we’ll continue to treat the Miami as the friends they’ve always been.
ANIKWA
The corn is almost ripe,
but not quite ready to be picked. Still,
we’re picking it, working together from dawn to dark.
We don’t know how much time we have, says Grandma.
We hope the corn will be dry enough to bury
so we can keep it out of sight,
away from soldiers.
My job is to dig deep holes
in places we hope no one will look, while
Rain Bird braids the husks together and hangs the corn
up to dry. I work harder than I ever have, ignoring the blisters
on my hands as I keep digging. Harder, faster. At first, Kwaahkwa helped.
Now he spends all his time with the young men, who argue: We have to
be ready when it happens. Cleaning rifles, making arrowheads,
bullets. There will be more soldiers than we’ve ever seen.
Even if the British get here first, we don’t know
how much ammunition they will bring.
Grandma stands behind me,
her hands on my head
pressing gently, as if she could
keep me from growing. Doing what she can
to give me strength and courage. I’ve always hoped, she says,
that you would not beco
me a man
in a time of war.
JAMES
Mrs. Briggs begs Ma, Come with us! You’ll be the only woman left behind.
Think about your children! What if— Ma cuts her off: I will stay in my home.
Ma can sure be stubborn. All the women and children in the fort are going
to Piqua, Ohio, so they won’t be here when the war starts. (Everyone stopped
saying “if the war starts.” Now they’re saying “when.”) Isaac gets an idea.
James, he says, you could come with us, even if your ma won’t go. Ma stares
at him and doesn’t say no right away—is she thinking of sending me,
without her or Pa? She’d keep Molly here, and I’d go to Piqua by myself?
Isaac acts like she said yes. It’ll be more fun with you along. We get to camp
out by a lake—they say there’s some big walleyes in it. Like this is a fishing trip
where nothing could go wrong. I step back, away from Isaac. Mrs. Briggs
keeps arguing, We’ll have five soldiers to protect us. Ma firmly answers, No.
Armed soldiers might make the trip more dangerous. Mrs. Briggs says, We’re
trying to find two Indian guides to go with us. Would anyone do that for them?
ANIKWA
Father
and Mink and Grandma
are still trying to find a way to stop this war,
or to keep it away from our home.
But everyone knows it’s
coming. Father
has to make
a hard decision. He tells us,
All the women and children are leaving the fort,
going to Piqua. They’ve asked us for guides to protect them.
A few people laugh at this. Father holds up his hand. Some of these
people are our friends and relatives. They will be safer if we offer our help.
We know, better than they do—they’re unlikely to survive without us.
All these may be good reasons to help them, but none
are good enough. It sounds like he’s decided
not to go, and not to ask anyone else
to make this dangerous trip.
There is one more thing
to think about,
he says. Maybe if we help
them, the Americans will see that we are not
their enemies. If we do this, will they help us keep peace here?
Piyeeto, our Shawnee friend, speaks up: I will go.
And Father says, So will I.
JAMES
Last week, this would have been ordinary food. Now it looks like a feast:
corn bread, cheese, hard-boiled eggs—a basket of food Ma’s sending with
the people going to Piqua. When my stomach growls, she says, They’ll need it
more than we do. Isaac’s trying to act like he’s glad to be going, but he keeps
chewing on his lip—he can’t stop it from quivering. He gets on the horse,
trying hard to smile, and Mr. Briggs lifts Becca up in front of him. Take care
of your ma and sister, Son, he says. How does he expect Isaac to do that?
Everyone knows how many dangerous things could happen on this trip.
Ma taps Pa on his arm and nods toward the front of the line. Old Raccoon?
He’s going along? And someone else at the back. Who’s that? I ask.
Pa answers, A Shawnee named Piyeeto who knows the trails and language
where they’re going. As Old Raccoon starts down the trail, Pa rests his hand
on my shoulder, and we watch until the last horse disappears around the bend
into the forest. Then Pa goes to the fort, and I walk home with Ma and Molly.
THE DEER’S LIFE AND OUR LIFE
Sun lit its path
and warmed it.
Earth gave it food.
Rain quenched its thirst.
Salt kept it strong.
Now its life will be ours:
food, strength, warmth.
We give thanks
for earth, rain, sun.
For salt. For deer.
ANIKWA
We light
a fire. We will keep it burning
until Father and Piyeeto return home.
Kwaahkwa stands in the circle
of the fire’s light, holding
a bowl of soup,
and he shines
like a grown man.
He has joined the other men,
from here and other places, as they prepare
to run back and forth past the fort all day and night,
keeping all the soldiers inside until the British army arrives.
When the soldiers in the fort look out and see all our men
running, and hear them singing all night and all day,
we hope they will think there are more warriors
than there really are, and they will be afraid
to leave the fort. This is what we
have heard them call
a “siege.”
I’m glad to know
the children and their mothers
are not there—James and Mrs. Gray
and baby Molly should be
at Piqua now.
JAMES
I follow a raindrop down the window with my finger. When it gets to the bottom,
I find another one to follow. Nothing to do. Even if there was—no one to do it with.
I’m hungry! There’s a squirrel up in that tree, looking right at me. I could get it
with my slingshot—easy. Or I could set a snare and catch a rabbit. Maybe two.
This time tomorrow we could be eating fried rabbit instead of soggy oatmeal.
the fort will be surrounded by a lot of Indians we don’t know, all of them hoping
the Americans won’t get here in time, and we’ll surrender when the British come.
But the way I see it—that hasn’t happened yet. This might be my last chance to slip
out for a few minutes. Pa’s at the fort, like he is every afternoon. Pretty soon,
Molly will take a nap. Usually Ma falls asleep when Molly does, long enough
for me to run a little ways along the trail, set my snares, and still get back
before she wakes up. The rain is slowing down, almost stopped. I slip three snares
into my pocket. Molly’s yawning. So is Ma. They both close their eyes. Here I go.
ANIKWA
What’s this?
It looks like James’s snare.
He must have set it before he went to Piqua,
so he doesn’t know he caught a rabbit.
Father and Piyeeto will be back
in a few days, but the women
and children will stay
a while longer. What should I do?
This rabbit was just caught—it’s still warm.
I’d better take it out before a hungry paapankamwa
comes along, flashing his bushy red tail, showing off those
big sharp teeth. I’d give this rabbit to James’s father if I could,
but since the trading post is closed, I’ll have to take it home.
Here’s another snare—looks like I got here too late—only
a tuft of brown fur, left over from paapankamwa’s
rabbit feast. There might be another one
probably not far along the trail.
I know where to look.
Here it is,
empty, like the last one.
Paapankamwa must be hungry.
I’ll leave the empty snares where I found them
for James to find when he
comes back.
JAMES
My mouth is watering for rabbit meat. My stomach’s growling again. Go check
your snares, it says. Hurry, before a fox finds them. Drowning out Ma and Pa’s
warnings. They don’t know I went out yesterday—lucky for me. Pa is
over at the fort again. Molly’s fast asleep, and Ma’s eyes are closing. If I go
soon and come straight home, they won’t even know I’ve left till I get back,
and I won’t tell them unless I have a rabbit for our supper. Like yesterday—
open the door, slip out, close it. (Glad there’s no ladies around to spy on me.)
I run to the loose board, push through, and take the path around the pond.
A beaver slaps his tail and dives. I don’t wait to see where he comes up.
I watch the trail ahead, look all around—don’t see anyone. Here’s my first
snare. Dang! Empty except for a piece of rabbit fluff. Something got to it
before I did—probably a fox. Shoot! Second one’s empty, too. That fox family
is having a feast. I should put out fox traps so they get caught before they steal
my rabbits. One more snare to check. Gotta get home before Ma wakes up.
ANIKWA
I’m walking
along, thinking about
something Wedaase said last night:
We would all be better off if we
kept explorers, soldiers,
traders, settlers, and
missionaries
far away from here. If we can’t
push them back behind the mountains, we can
at least try to keep them on the other side of the Ohio River.
What would our life be like without any of those people? Do we
need the trading post? Wedaase says, Our grandparents got along fine
without trade goods, not so long ago, and we could do it again now.
Maybe we have all the cooking pots we need. How about
rifles? Needles. Cloth. Could we make our clothes
like old-time people used to? We don’t need
their food. I’d be happy if I never
saw Isaac again. I might
miss James.
(He’d miss me more.)
I wonder how he’s doing at Piqua. Father
should be back soon. What? Who’s that on the trail?
It looks like James … walking
right toward me!