by Jean Fischer
“I know that melody,” Elizabeth whispered. “That’s ‘Amazing Grace’. My, she sings loudly for an old woman!”
“She sings it a lot,” Billy John answered. “It’s sometimes called the Cherokee National Anthem. The Cherokee people sang it on the Trail of Tears. Listen. She taught me the English words.”
As Mahalia Hummingbird sang in the Cherokee language the boy translated the words of her song.
U ne la nv I u we tsi
“God’s Son,” Billy John whispered.
I ga gu yv he i
“paid for us.”
Hna quo tso sv wi yu lo se
“Now to heaven He went”
I nets yv ho nv
“after paying for us.”
A se no I u net se i
“Then He spoke”
i yu no du le nv
“when He rose.”
ta li ne dv tsi lu tsi li
“I’ll come the second time”
u dv ne u ne tsv
“He said when He spoke.”
e lo ni gv ni li s qua di
“All the world will end”
ga lu tsv ha i yu
“when He returns”
ni ga di da ye di go i
“We will all see Him”
a ni e lo ni gv
“here the world over.”
u na da nv ti a ne hv
“The righteous who live”
do da ya nv hi li
“He will come after.”
tso sv hna quo ni go hi lv
“In heaven now always”
do hi wa ne he s di
“in peace they will live.”
“Mrs. Hummingbird must be a Christian,” Elizabeth commented.
“Oh yes,” Billy John answered. “She loves God more than anyone I know.”
Mrs. Mahalia Hummingbird
Billy John stepped onto the cabin’s porch. He waited outside the open door and called loudly, “Mrs. Hummingbird? Mrs. Hummingbird, it’s me, Billy John.”
The old woman stopped singing. She said something to him, and he went inside. Sydney, Elizabeth, and Galilahi waited in the woods, unable to hear what was going on.
Before long, Billy John came out onto the porch. He walked to where the girls were waiting.
“Okay,” he said. “One more time, do you promise not to tell a living soul about Mrs. Hummingbird and where she lives?”
“Yes! We promise!” said Sydney impatiently.
Elizabeth and Galilahi agreed.
“Now, remember,” Billy John told them, “she’s very old and hard of hearing. And don’t let her scare you. She’s just that way.”
“Just what way?” Sydney asked.
Billy John walked toward the cabin without answering. “Come on,” he said. “Follow me. And be quiet and polite.”
Sydney bristled. Be polite! Who is he to tell us to be polite?
They stepped onto the cabin’s porch. The wood planks sagged and felt soft under Sydney’s feet.
“Watch your step,” she warned the girls. “This old floor could go at any time.”
“Sshhh!” Billy John whispered. “I’ll fix it someday, but don’t say anything to her about it. She doesn’t like it when I try to help.”
He knocked on the open front door. “Mrs. Hummingbird, I’m bringing them in now,” he said.
The warm, damp smell of the cabin reminded Sydney of the way the kitchen in her house smelled when her mom made stew on a cold, winter day.
Billy John went inside and invited the girls to follow him.
As Sydney stepped onto the clean-swept, hardwood floor of the one-room cabin, she could imagine what it was like to be a settler living in the Great Smoky Mountains in the late-1800s. Dried herbs, castiron pots and pans, and even a pair of snowshoes hung from the rafters. Cheerful, brightly-colored blankets were nailed to three of the walls. Sydney assumed that they helped keep out the cold on winter days.
The fourth wall held a stone fireplace and rows of crooked, wood shelves resting on brackets. The shelves were packed with covered crocks, jars, boxes, and old tin cans. One corner of the room was separated from the rest by a curtain. It was sewn from a bright, flower-patterned fabric.
When Sydney took a few steps to her right, she saw a mattress behind the curtain, covered with another native blanket. There was a small, black cooking stove in the opposite corner. A wood fire provided its fuel, and a coal black chimney pipe stretched from its firebox through the cabin’s roof allowing smoke and soot to escape.
A pot of something steamed and boiled on the stovetop. A fire in the stone fireplace took some of the dampness from the cabin and provided a little light for the windowless room. In front of the fireplace was set a small, wooden bench and a rocking chair like the one on the porch.
Mrs. Mahalia Hummingbird sat there, rocking, with her back to the visitors.
Billy John brought the girls closer to her. “Mrs. Hummingbird,” he said. “These are my friends, Sydney, Elizabeth, and Galilahi.”
The woman turned toward them slowly. Her brown eyes stared at the company standing in her cabin. Her skin was bronze, like Billy John’s, and wrinkled, like a wilted rose. Her face, like his, had chiseled features, a prominent chin and smooth, high cheekbones.
“Which is Galilahi?” she asked. Her voice sounded younger than her ninety-plus years.
Galilahi took a step closer. “I am.”
The old woman lifted a gnarled finger and pointed to the bench next to her. “Sit here,” she commanded. “Billy, bring more chairs.”
Billy John got chairs from a ramshackle table in the center of the room and set them near the fire.
“And light the oil lamp on the table,” Mrs. Hummingbird ordered. “We need more light in here.”
The boy lit the oil lamp and turned the wick high. The room brightened in a soft yellow glow that merged with the flickering light from the fire. It brought warmth to the misty gray daylight that shone through the open front door.
For what seemed like forever, they sat by the fireplace not saying a word. Usually, Sydney would have been asking questions by now. She might even have been writing in her sleuthing notebook, or setting up her tiny recording device to record Mrs. Hummingbird’s words. But today, she kept both of these tucked into her pocket. She waited while the old woman rocked.
Mrs. Hummingbird’s sharp voice cut through the silence like a knife. “I want Galilahi to speak now and tell me her story.”
Billy John looked at Galilahi and nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.” Galilahi spoke up. “My family is Cherokee. We just moved here from Oklahoma this summer. My dad is a pilot for the helicopter tours and my mom is looking for a job in Cherokee. She worked at a convenience store back home—”
“I thought you said that she needed my help to find out about her family,” the old woman snapped, looking at Billy John.
Billy John leaned forward in his chair. “She does,” he said gently. “It just takes her a little time to explain herself.”
“My great-grandmother, my mom’s grandmother, has taught me a lot about the Cherokees and our ancestors,” Galilahi went on. “Great-Grandmother is, like, as old as you are—”
Mrs. Hummingbird shook her head. “You don’t know how old I am.”
Galilahi thought before she continued. “My great-grandmother—”
“Her name, please.”
“Pardon?”
“Her name!” Mrs. Hummingbird repeated. “What is your great-grandmother’s given name?”
“Oh,” said Galilahi. “Her name is Mary Fields Rogers.”
“I don’t know her,” said Mrs. Hummingbird. “But go on.”
Sydney wondered if Galilahi would ever be able to tell her story without the old woman interrupting.
“I was named after one of my ancestors,” Galilahi said. “Her name was Galilahi Adair Coody. She was my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.”
“We’ve been calling her Grandma Hisgi,” Elizabeth said.
“Go on,” Mrs. Hummingbird said. She seemed to have a new interest in Galilahi’s story.
“Great-Grandmother told me a very interesting story about the Trail of Tears,” Galilahi said.
A sad look swept across the old woman’s face. “Nunna daul Tsuny,” she said. “The trail where they cried.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Galilahi said. “My great-great-great-great-great-grandmother and her family were affected by Nunna daul Tsuny.”
The room fell silent again. No one spoke as the old woman stared into the fire. Suddenly, she exclaimed, “We all were affected by Nunna daul Tsuny!”
Elizabeth shuddered.
“You, me, Billy John. All of the Cherokee people were victims.”
Again, no one said a word.
“What are you waiting for?” the old woman asked. She stared at Galilahi with piercing, brown eyes. “Continue,” Mrs. Hummingbird demanded, rocking more quickly.
Galilahi went on speaking. “Great-Grandmother says that Grandma Hisgi, I mean my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, lived here in Cherokee when the Trail of Tears happened. When President Andrew Jackson got some of the Cherokee people to agree to move west.”
Mrs. Hummingbird stopped rocking and looked at Galilahi. “A small group of our people agreed to move west,” she said. “Most wanted to stay on their land. This was their home.”
Sydney and Elizabeth sat silently, hoping that once Galilahi had told the whole story, Mrs. Hummingbird would provide some information about the Cabin of the Rising Sun. The rain fell harder now. It pounded on the cabin’s roof, and thunder was rumbling in the distance.
“Ga-li-la-hi,” Mrs. Hummingbird said, spitting out the syllables of her name. “You still haven’t told me one thing about Galilahi Adair Coody. Why exactly have you come here?”
Billy John shifted in his chair. “Yeah, Lea, we really do have to move this story along.”
“I’m sorry!” Galilahi moaned. “I’ll get to the point right now.”
The old woman sighed.
“Galilahi Adair Coody, my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, was ten years old when the Trail of Tears happened. She and her parents were going to be taken away by the soldiers. But before the soldiers came, Galilahi’s mother went to a family she knew. I guess a small group of Cherokee people didn’t have to leave their land, because they made a deal with the government or something. That family was one of them. So Galilahi Adair Coody’s mother asked them to take Galilahi as their little girl. The family agreed, and when the soldiers came, they took Galilahi’s parents away, but Galilahi stayed behind. The soldiers thought she was the other family’s child.”
“Wow,” Billy John interrupted. “That’s really something. I didn’t know that part. I’m related to Galilahi Adair Coody too, you know,” he said to Mrs. Hummingbird.
“Yes, Billy,” she said. “Is there any more of your story?” she asked Galilahi.
The fire in the fireplace sputtered again.
“She’s getting to the most important part,” Sydney announced. “Tell her, Galilahi. Explain why we came here.”
Billy John slid his chair nearer the fire. “She’s getting there, Sydney. Give the girl a chance.”
Galilahi noticed that Mrs. Hummingbird was looking at her now with an almost eager expression on her face.
“We don’t know much that happened after that,” Galilahi said. “But Great-Grandmother heard that Grandma Hisgi, I mean my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, lived around here in a place called the Cabin of the Rising Sun. I promised Great-Grandmother Rogers that when I moved here from Oklahoma, I’d try to find the old cabin. I want to know what became of Grandma Hisgi.”
“And we were hoping that you could help us,” Elizabeth added. “The only clues we have are in Grandma Hisgi’s old Bible, which Galilahi has.”
Galilahi reached into her jeans pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper. “There was a letter in the Bible,” she said. “written in Cherokee. I made a copy.”
She handed it to Mrs. Hummingbird.
As the old woman read the letter, Sydney’s eyes wandered around the room. Something caught her attention. She wanted Elizabeth to see it too. She slid her right foot over and gave her friend’s ankle a little kick.
When Elizabeth looked at her, Sydney rolled her eyes toward the back of the open front door. She nodded her head, slightly, in that direction.
At first, Elizabeth thought that Sydney had seen something outside. She looked hard, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Again, Sydney rolled her eyes toward the door.
Then Elizabeth saw it. Could it be? It was hard to tell from across the room, because it was so small, but it looked like a symbol of the sun had been etched or branded onto the back of the old, wooden door. It was the same sun symbol that had been at the bottom of Grandma Hisgi’s letter and in the margins of her Bible.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she looked at Sydney.
Mrs. Mahalia Hummingbird finished reading the letter. She laid it on her lap. Then she bowed her head for a few seconds. “Amen,” she whispered. When she looked up at Galilahi, she smiled.
“Yes, Galilahi,” she said. “Yes, I think I can help you.”
Secrets Revealed
“Do you realize what this is?” Mrs. Hummingbird held up the copy of Grandma Hisgi’s letter.
“Yes,” Galilahi said. The stern look on the woman’s face almost made her afraid to continue. “It’s a letter my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother wrote to her family.”
Mrs. Hummingbird sighed again and slowly shook her head.
“What I’m asking,” she said bluntly, “is do any of you know what these words are?
No one spoke. All were afraid of giving the wrong answer.
The fire in the fireplace had died now, and the old woman stood up. She shuffled to the stove and stirred whatever was simmering in the pot. “These words are a passage from the Bible,” she announced. “Billy John, move the chairs to the table.”
The boy got up and moved his chair first.
“Our friend Kate translated the Cherokee words,” Sydney said as she got up.
Elizabeth stood up too. “They’re from the Old Testament, Ecclesiastes, chapter 1, verses 5 through 7.”
Mrs. Hummingbird pointed to the table. “Sit over there, where the light burns,” she commanded.
Billy John and the girls pulled the chairs close to the table and sat down.
Mrs. Hummingbird stopped her stirring and joined them.
“The book of Ecclesiastes was written by Solomon, a king of Israel,” she said. “He was searching for the meaning of life.”
She read from Grandma Hisgi’s letter: “‘The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises. The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course. All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full. To the place the streams come from, there they return again.’
“When Solomon wrote those words, he was unhappy. He was looking for a purpose in his life. He was saying life was just filled with all the same worthless things, every day, going ’round and ’round.”
It was the most Mrs. Hummingbird had said since they got there. Sydney was surprised that she knew so much about the Bible, and she was also surprised by Mrs. Hummingbird’s explanation of the words.
“By the end of the book of Ecclesiastes,” the old woman continued, “Solomon had changed his mind. He decided that life is only the same old thing, day after day, if you don’t have faith in God. But, if you do have faith, then every day is filled with hope. It’s a brand-new day full of magnificent things. Do you understand?” she asked.
“Yes!” Elizabeth answered. “When you believe in Jesus, you become brand-new, and you see life the way He saw it. It’s like you’re a new person inside.”
“Exactly!” Mrs. Hummingbird agreed.
Galilahi sat in her chair looking anxious. “But what does any of this hav
e to do with the Cabin of the Rising Sun where my Grandma Hisgi was raised? Do you know where her cabin is?”
The old woman answered tersely. “No, I do not.”
The look of eager anticipation faded from Galilahi’s face.
“You don’t?” she asked. “I thought you said that you did!”
Sydney felt Galilahi’s disappointment. The look on Elizabeth’s face showed that she did too. They had tried so hard to help their new friend, and they had reached yet another dead end.
“You did say you could help?” Sydney reminded her.
Mrs. Hummingbird folded her hands and rested them on the table.
“There are things that I can tell you,” she said. “But I don’t know anything about the cabin where Galilahi Adair Coody grew up. And I did not say that I did!”
“Then tell us what you do know, please,” she begged the old woman.
A thin trail of sooty, black smoke rose from the oil lamp’s glass chimney. Mrs. Hummingbird turned down the wick, and the light dimmed.
“When I was a very small child,” she said, “I attended the burial of Galilahi Adair Coody.”
Galilahi gasped. “You did! You knew my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother?”
Mrs. Hummingbird raised her hand slightly, a signal for Galilahi to stop talking. “I did not say that I knew her. I said I attended her burial. I did so with my mother and my sister. I was very young then, and your ancestor was very old when she passed. I remember little about the burial. But I do remember standing at her grave and one of the men playing ‘Amazing Grace’ on his flute. A large crowd of mourners was there dressed in tribal attire.”
Tears filled Galilahi’s eyes, not so much from thinking about Grandma Hisgi’s funeral, but because they had reached another dead end. It seemed that Grandma Hisgi had taken the secret of the Cabin of the Rising Sun to her grave.
Sydney’s mind was racing. “But Mrs. Hummingbird, if you didn’t know her, why did you and your family go to her funeral? And you said that a whole crowd of people were there.”
Whatever was on the stove was boiling. Mrs. Hummingbird got up and took the pot from the stovetop. She set it on the hearth to cool.
“Galilahi Adair Coody was a much-loved member of our community.
