Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage)

by Sara R. Turnquist

  Mother's were wide, but Father simply blinked.

  “Adsila,” Mother began, her voice harsh and scolding, “You—”

  Father held up his hand. He tilted his head then nodded for Adsila to continue.

  She stepped forward, sucking in another breath through her teeth. “I am old enough, and I want to know about the affairs of our tribe. I'm a member of this tribe, and it affects me, too.”

  Father continued to watch her but said nothing.

  “I'm not a child anymore. I'll be married someday… soon.” She choked on the last words but kept her features firm as her argument poured out like rushing water. “And I want to be treated fairly… as an adult.”

  Father’s features betrayed no sign of what he might be thinking.

  She kept her chin high.

  After a long moment, Father waved an open palm toward her vacant chair.

  A rush of blood pumped through her body. She pushed a breath out and stilled her limbs to contain her excitement. Then she settled into the chair.

  Father eyes did not leave her face. Was he gauging her reaction? A slight smile broke through his exterior.

  Mother took her seat as well. Her features were passive, but her posture was tight. And she would not look in Adsila’s direction. Did she not agree with Father’s decision?

  That stung. So, Mother did not think Adsila was old enough. It was no matter. Father’s word was final. She shifted her attention to Father and refused to so much as glance at Mother.

  Father's eyes became clear and serious. “There was much discussed. But one matter is of great importance.” His gaze caught Mother’s.

  Something passed between them that Adsila could not identify.

  Her nails scraped across the back of her hands. Was she playing with her fingers? She pressed them into her lap.

  “What is it?” She cringed at the lingering silence.

  Father sighed. “The United States Congress passed the Indian Removal Act.”

  A strangled cry escaped Mother’s lips, and her hand flew to her mouth. Did this mean something to her?

  Adsila looked between them.

  Their faces were downcast.

  Mother's eyes glossed over, and Father reached for her hand.

  Adsila’s palms stung. She had dug her nails into them. It took effort to unclamp her hands.

  An uncomfortable quiet fell over the room.

  “What? What does this mean?” The words burst from her before she could stop them.

  Father's gaze jerked toward her. His dark orbs, too, were glassy.

  Clearing his throat, he blinked away any hint of tears. So proud. “It means we are to be moved from our lands, the lands our ancestors have inhabited for generations, to lands west of the Mississippi River.”

  Her stomach lurched. A knot formed in her middle and it weighed a hundred pounds.

  “B-B-But,” she stammered. Where were her words? “They can't do that! It’s not right! It can’t be. Not even by their laws.”

  Father gave her a long look. His eyes were deeper in that moment. The lines in his face seemed so, too. He was worn. Worn by the decisions he and the council made over the years and worn by the decisions that were out of their hands.

  “You are still young, my daughter. You do not yet know the true nature of the white man. He will find a way to get what he wants.”

  She couldn't speak. Her head swam, and her skin became clammy. Even breathing was a struggle.

  What were they going to do?

  ****

  Lillian Greyson closed her Bible and laid it in her lap, the aged leather binding was warm.

  The Psalms brought no joy, Proverbs no wisdom, and the Gospels no hope.

  Not today.

  Not when her thoughts were so clouded.

  She couldn't see past the fog of worry to find the peace that passes understanding, which God promised she would find in Him and His Word.

  Not lately. And not today.

  How could she see past herself to focus on God when her youngest son, her Tommy, was in the midst of great tribulation?

  How her heart ached for him. Why couldn't he be more like his brother and sister? If only he could have found a 'regular' vocation, marry, settle close to home, and start a family. Here.

  Why did he have to become a missionary?

  Why couldn't God call him to be a preacher in Charlotte?

  She did want her children to follow God's path for their lives, but if she were honest with herself, her idea of God's plan maybe had a narrow scope. And God was big. Had she not taught her children that very thing?

  Newspaper crinkling drew her attention.

  Her husband glanced at her, his paper now drawn down past his face.

  “Finished your reading already?” Arthur pulled his pipe from his mouth.

  “It's no use.” She set her Bible on the side table.

  He cocked his head to one side.

  She could not disguise the demons that plagued her. Not from her husband. He knew her too well.

  “Thomas is a grown man, Lillian. We have to let him live his own life.” He brought his paper down to his lap.

  “But the Indian Removal Act...”

  “Has nothing to do with him.” His voice was firm, face drawn. “He is a protected citizen of the United States.”

  “That's what they said about the Indians.” Her own voice sounded meek. Did her concern have to be so ridiculous?

  “Absurd,” he confirmed, putting his paper to the side, a harsh motion. “They're not like us.” His chest puffed, and his free hand clenched into a fist.

  She nodded, lowering her head and looking at her lap, fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt. He spoke the truth.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I think we can rest assured that our government will take care of the Indian removal as delicately as possible. No one wants trouble.” He spoke with gentleness, but his voice did not invite discussion.

  She sighed. Her husband was wiser about these things. Splaying her hands, she studied her fingernails.

  His tone softened. “If it will make you feel better, why don't you write the boy a letter?”

  “What a marvelous idea!” She clapped her hands.

  Without further prompting, she moved to her correspondence desk and pulled out paper and pen. It took only a handful of seconds to gather her thoughts before she began.

  “Dearest Thomas, I hope this letter finds you well…”

  ****

  Thomas let out a deep sigh. Having finished his lessons for the day and dismissed his students, he took a moment to gaze over his humble classroom. Was he reaching them? His students performed well in their subjects, but had he made any lasting impact? He sighed again as he rubbed chalk dust from his hands. Perhaps only time would tell.

  He gathered his things and made short work of closing the small schoolhouse. As he stepped out of the makeshift building, a breeze flowed over him. His eyes slid shut. If only it could take his worries and cares with it. The burst of air washed over him and refreshed his senses. And he allowed it. For several blissful moments.

  His shoulders tightened, and his brow furrowed. What interrupted his peace? The children. Their eyes stared into him even now. Wanting, hurting, asking for something deeper than grammar and equations. It was important they get good instruction in these basic subjects; but it was vital they learn about God, about Jesus, about the Gospel.

  Opening his eyes, Thomas gazed across the landscape. There were a few cabins visible from this vantage point. The Cherokee, his mission field, had proved more resistant than he had anticipated. His studies had taught him how much they’d given up to become ‘civilized.’ Much of who they were now lay in the past. Curious.

  He began the walk toward his own cabin.

  Did the Cherokee believe he now asked them to give up the last bit of their culture? Their religion? Was that the reason for the difficulty he had acquainting himself with his neighbors?

  He had been invite
d to sup with Atohi and his family once a week, and he had the school. Beyond that, no one would open their doors, or their hearts. Or listen to the message he brought. No matter what the chief said, he was an outsider.

  He spotted his cabin on the horizon. The structure's modest proportions were nothing compared to his parents' large home in Charlotte. But it belonged to him.

  What would his mother think of him living in such a tight space? Unthinkable! Inhumane! And all other such craziness. But the little house had been more than adequate.

  Ducking, he stepped through the door and set his school supplies down. He crossed his arms as his gaze wandered about the small space. It needed a good cleaning. There were dirty plates and a pile of clothes in the corner—it made him long for one day of the housekeeper's time.

  But as much as this humble abode belonged to him, the chores did as well.

  Not today.

  He needed respite for his soul. Having no one to talk to or share his concerns with, he often found himself in need of time alone with God. Grabbing for his knapsack, he walked back into the sunlight.

  Today he needed space. From this village. From these worries.

  Working his way up the creek, he left any semblance of the known behind as he sought a quiet spot in which to commune with God. He lengthened his stride, and the worries of the past days faded as the cabins diminished in his view.

  He pulled at the strap of his knapsack, reassured by its weight. It was but a slight burden, bearing only his Bible, a block of wood, and his whittling knife.

  From his youth, his father worked with him to whittle, using first soap and a dull blade. Soon after, he graduated to wood and a real blade.

  His mother encouraged him to pursue art and sculpting as he grew, but his true passions lay with God's direction—the mission field. Still, there was nothing like using his hands to create statuettes of birds, squirrels, and many other things in God's natural world. But it could never be more than a hobby.

  Glancing back, the village had long since disappeared. Perhaps now he should look for a place to nest down. Then he might read and study to his heart's content.

  And pray.

  Perhaps even work the knife over the block and bring something new into being.

  A tree nearby stood tall and proud. The grass around it appeared a lush seat. Nature’s chair, already prepared for him.

  He stepped toward the aged oak, placing a hand on the trunk and shrugging the knapsack from his shoulder. Gazing up the height of the tree, he wondered at the storms it had weathered. Would he, too, prove sturdy enough to stand such tests?

  Water splashed. Where did that come from? It seemed close. Should he concern himself with it? Maybe it was nothing more than a wild animal further upstream.

  Or was it?

  He wouldn’t have to go but a few feet.

  But would it be dangerous to sneak up on an animal with no rifle?

  The splashing continued.

  Didn’t sound too large, he wagered.

  He pulled the bag over his head, the strap resting across his chest, and stepped in the direction of the sound. The creek made a sharp turn a few yards upstream.

  Following the bend, he kept his footfalls as soundless as possible and slowed his steps as he drew ever nearer.

  The sounds were so clear now. For certain, he was only a few yards from the animal. He came to a stop and, holding his breath, lifted a shaking hand. This was nonsense. There was nothing to fear. Steeling himself, he pushed the tree limb to the side.

  A young Cherokee woman stood in the creek, water to her knees. More striking—she wore a traditional deerskin dress.

  He had never seen such, except in pictures.

  Belted at the waist with fringe on the hem and on the sleeves, it was rather… becoming. And because of the depth of the water, she had hiked the skirt until the hem only covered her to mid-thigh. Long, black hair hung loose, flowing about her shoulders.

  His face warmed. He wanted to turn away, to back up, to slip from this scene. In truth, he should. But he couldn’t.

  She was captivating. The young woman hummed a tune that could have been as old as her people. And she moved back and forth in the water to a rhythm all her own. Was she from a nearby village? Perhaps she sought the same thing he did—solace.

  Yes, he should go. Should have gone before now.

  Moving one foot back, he put his weight on it.

  Still, he could not tear his eyes away.

  As he pressed back on that foot, the ground moved underneath him.

  And he slipped.

  When he stopped sliding down the small embankment, he was in the creek.

  Jarred. And well deservedly so. But as he moved, nothing seemed broken, thank the Lord.

  He opened his eyes and shifted forward, squatting on his toes. And the blunt end of a rather large branch greeted him. Mere inches from his chest.

  Two angry deep brown eyes glared at him from the other side of the scary-looking limb.

  His hands shot in the air.

  “What are you doing here? Spying on me? White man!” Her voice was strong, harsh. Not at all like the gentle cadence he’d just heard.

  “No.” He backed up as he rose, almost tripping on the smooth stones in the creek.

  She kept step with him, not allowing for one inch of distance to come between him and the branch.

  “I was… I was walking along and came upon you… by accident” He tried to find his words.

  “By accident? You expect me to believe that?” Her eyes flashed. One side of her dress kept slipping down, exposing a perfectly browned shoulder.

  He lowered his eyes. “I promise you. I am the village missionary. My village is three miles… that way.” Raising a hand a hair higher, he pointed behind himself.

  “Missionary? So, you are the one teaching our children lies.” Her voice gave no hint of softening. She raised the branch higher so it was in his face.

  “Yes. I mean, no! I mean…” He touched the branch with one finger to ease it back down.

  Clearing his throat, he attempted to speak more firmly. “I am the missionary sent to teach. But I speak only the truth.”

  Her lips curled into a snarl. “I suppose that is what you believe.” She lowered the branch… slowly.

  “Please.” He stuck his hand over the lowering branch. “My name is Thomas.”

  She stared at his hand, eyes dark and hard. “You should make your way back to the village before it gets dark, Missionary.” Taking a step back, she left no room for argument.

  He let his hand fall to his side. Still, he could not just let it be.

  “And you are?” he called after her.

  “Someone who doesn't trust you,” she said as she backed away from him, her gaze continuing to follow his every movement.

  Pursing his lips, he lowered his eyes. What more was there to say? He swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

  One more person who didn’t trust him.

  His hands balled into fists. Was there nothing he could do to change his plight? Moving toward the embankment, he stepped out of the creek.

  But before he began his climb, he paused. Nothing would excuse him not being a gentleman. He ground his teeth. “Shall I escort you back to the village?”

  No answer. Not even a sharp rebuke.

  He turned.

  But she had vanished.

  ****

  Walter Buckner made his way to the capitol building, his steps slower than usual. Two things were true: one, the senator would already be in his office and two, the senator would not be in a pleasant mood.

  With his head down, Walter tried not to think on what the day would bring. Which only made those thoughts run rampant. Would the senator be angry? Would he take it out on the staff?

  Mph!

  Walter collided with something solid.

  “Watch where you're going,” a voice said in a coarse tone.

  He looked up. One of his colleagues smoothed his
jacket as he regained his composure.

  “Sorry, Harry. I… my mind was somewhere else.”

  “No worries. We're all a little uneasy these days.” Harry flashed him a winning grin. The same one that had probably gotten him into politics and would keep him there.

  “Walk with me?” Harry waved toward the building looming in front of them.

  Walter nodded, taking up step next to Harry, trying not to rush.

  Silence fell between them, but Harry broke it soon enough. “What do you think of Senator Frelinghuysen's six-hour filibuster?” A sly smile pulled at Harry’s lips. “And all for nothing. I tell you, your boss…”

  “What?” Walter’s tone was more abrasive than he’d intended.

  “I was only…”

  “I know.” He softened his voice. “But you have to respect the man, standing for his beliefs… especially when they aren’t popular.”

  Harry quirked a brow but didn’t speak further.

  “He has to have nerve to do that.” Why did he feel the need to defend the senator?

  Harry nodded. “That’s true. But don't you think he should keep his evangelical Christianity out of his politics?” His voice was plain, matter-of-fact even. “I daresay he won't go far if he doesn't.”

  Walter wanted to remind Harry that the position of United States Senator is quite a distinguished honor. Especially for someone who ‘won’t go far.’ But he bit his lip. No good would come of it.

  They entered the building in silence and soon approached the hallway that divided their paths.

  Harry nodded as they separated. “See you later, Walter.” Then, with a quirky smile and a wink, he added, “Keep your head on straight.”

  “I will.” He plastered a smile on his features. “Sorry again about bumping into you.”

  “No worries,” he called without turning his head.

  Walter continued the several feet remaining to the offices of New Jersey Senator Theodore Frelinghuysen. Lanterns were on, but there was no movement within. So, the senator had arrived, but no one else.

  Opening the door with as little noise as possible, he set his things down on his shared desk and sighed. Must he intrude on the senator’s privacy? But it was his duty to check on the man and ensure there wasn’t anything he needed.

  Making quick strides through the large space, he made his way to the inner office's door. The barrier to the senator’s inner sanctuary was cracked. Still, Walter knocked with soft raps. Even the slight movement caused the door to open a hair's width more. Were the hinges so well-oiled?