Indian Captive

by Lois Lenski

“The story-teller is coming,” replied Molly, “and there will be a big crowd. Shining Star says his stories are wonderful to hear. The Indians have stories the white people never dream of. You would like them.”

  “I’m more interested in meat than in stories!” growled Josiah.

  “The story-teller comes only in winter,” Molly went on hastily. “As soon as the buds open on the trees the stories are hushed, because then the spirits of nature are awake….”

  But Josiah was not listening, “Where are you going?” cried Molly. She rose suddenly, dropping her bowl and ladle upon the ground. Wild panic seized her. The look in Josiah’s eyes was desperate. She watched him speak to Turkey Feather and she saw the two start for the door.

  “Don’t worry, Molly!” called Josiah. “Just trust me if you can. Once more I’m going to ask that lazy Log-in-the-Water for his gun.”

  “You’re not…”

  “Don’t worry!” begged Josiah. He lifted the flap at the door and stepped outside.

  “Whew! Molly!” he called back, poking his head in again. “The snow’s coming down harder than ever. We will be buried alive here till spring, that’s certain.”

  Molly’s impulse was to rush but and follow him, but she stayed where she was. Left alone, all her happiness faded. What if he should start for Virginia without her? She knew that if he made up his mind to go, even the snow would not keep him. But how could she travel in the snow, in freezing weather like this?

  With the light gone from her eyes and her spirit she watched the people come into Red Bird’s lodge. All the holes and open places in the bark walls had been tightly stuffed with moss, and the six fires along the middle of the central hallway were constantly fed by the women with fresh supplies of dry wood. Still it was cold. Each time the flap was lifted, a breath of icy air was admitted. She shivered and pulled a wool blanket close about her shoulders.

  The crowd waited expectantly as night closed in. At last a shout was heard outside and all the children ran to the door.

  “Dajoh, enter! Enter!” they cried, in great excitement. “Hosk-wi-sä-onh, the story-teller, has come!”

  A tall, dark man entered and threw off his blanket. He was dressed in deerskin leggings and overshirt, embroidered with colored moose hair. His silver-banded cap was trimmed with the usual cluster of drooping feathers, topped by an eagle feather set in a socket to twirl. He carried two bags, one for pipe and tobacco and the other filled with mysterious lumps.

  Red Bird stepped quietly forward and placed a bench by the fire. Other women spread corn-husk mats on the ground. The crowd gathered close at the man’s feet.

  The story-teller took his bear-bowled pipe from his pouch and filled it carefully with tobacco. A small boy ran up, took the pipe to the fire and placed a hot coal upon it, then returned it to the man’s hand. He smoked peacefully. After a moment he threw a pinch of tobacco upon the fire and said a prayer to the unseen spirits.

  “Hoh!” he exclaimed. “What story shall I tell you? Let us see.”

  He plunged his hand into his second bag, which was filled with an array of objects selected to remind him of his stories—shells, bear teeth, strings of wampum, feathers, bark dolls, bears’ tusks and animals’ claws. Slowly he drew forth a small, round, smooth stone.

  “Hoh!” he cried. “The story-telling stone! This is a story about a stone. Listen, my children, while the fire burns red and the shadows come and go like mighty giants and I will tell you the story of the story-telling stone.

  “Many hundred moons ago, an orphan boy went out to hunt, in order to bring home game to his foster mother. One day, the sinew which held the feathers to his arrow came loose and he sat down to tighten it. He sat down on a high, smooth, round stone in the woods. ‘Shall I tell you stories?’ asked a voice. ‘What is that—stories?’ asked the boy. ‘It is telling what happened a long time ago,’ replied the stone on which the boy was sitting. ‘If you will give me your game, I will tell you stories.’ The boy gave up his game and the stone began telling what happened long ago. Each day, in return for the boy’s game, the stone told him another story. One day the boy brought a friend with him, and the day after, two men of the village came along to hear the stories. By and by all the people in the village came, first giving meat or bread to the stone.

  “Afterwards some of them forgot all the stone’s words, some remembered only a part, but a few of the people remembered every word. To them the stone said: ‘You must keep these stories as long as the world lasts. Tell them to your children and grandchildren, generation after generation. To the person who remembers them best, ask for a story and take him a gift, bread or meat or whatever you have.’ And so from the story-telling stone, came all the knowledge the Senecas have of the world of long, long ago!”

  As the story-teller talked, the people listened with glistening eyes. Often someone cried, “Un! Good! Good!” to show his pleasure. Some smiled and others laughed aloud. “A story in the cold winter warms the heart,” said Red Bird softly.

  The story-teller drew a bird’s feather from his mysterious bag. “The singing bird!” he cried, smiling broadly. “This is a story about a boy who learned the songs of the birds. Do you all now listen.

  “Many moons ago, a boy was once sent to the woods to hunt for birds. Instead of shooting them, he hid behind a tree and listened to their songs. Then he put feathers in his hair and danced and sang the birds’ songs. The boy’s brother asked him why he had stopped hunting for birds. ‘I listen to their songs,’ said the boy. ‘I have learned to sing their songs and I will teach them to you. What I do now will be for all the people who are to come. I will make it a rule that the people to come must wear feathers and dance and sing.’

  “So the boy taught his brother to sing and dance. Then he taught all the people in the village. The boy said:

  “‘I sing what I have heard the birds sing.

  I give thanks as I heard them do

  when I was hunting.

  I dance to my songs

  because I hear the birds sing

  and see them dance.

  We must do as they do.

  It will make us feel glad and happy.

  The Great Spirit tells the birds to teach us songs.’”

  The story-teller paused for a moment. Then he added: “So now you know that from the birds come all the Indian songs and dances!”

  “Un! Un! Good! Good!” cried the people, happily. The story of the singing bird was one of their favorites.

  As story followed story Molly forgot her hunger as well as her anxiety over Josiah. The Indian stories gave her new strength and happiness. “Now I can understand their songs and dances better,” she said to herself, “since I know they came from the birds. I can tell the stories to Josiah and he will love them, too.”

  The fires flickered low and the snow-laden wind whistled boisterously round the corners of Red Bird’s lodge, as the story-teller closed his bag and tied it up carefully. He lifted his bear-bowled pipe to his mouth and began to smoke again, while the Indians filed past, dropping gifts into his open palm—a pinch of tobacco, a silver brooch, a strand of deer sinew or a skein of bark fiber. Molly went, too, dropping tobacco with which Shining Star had provided her. For all gifts, large and small, the story-teller nodded his thanks.

  The next day, Molly heard from Shagbark that Running Deer was gone. The gun was gone, too, from Log-in-the-Waters bedside. Only the fact that Turkey Feather had accompanied him, saved Running Deer from serious suspicion.

  Old Shagbark shook his head with disapproval. “Running Deer has been not only disobedient; he has shown lack of wisdom.”

  Days passed. Molly waited, with the others, for the return of her two missing friends, and for the return of the hunting party. The snowstorm abated and a mid-winter thaw set in, melting much of the ice in the river. On the fourth day, Panther Woman announced that there would be only one meal daily.

  All the morning Molly worked busily at her porcupine embroidery, to try to
forget her hunger. At last when she grew tired she laid the work aside and walked to the edge of the village. There to her surprise she saw two figures approaching on snow-shoes, carrying a deer trussed up by the legs to a pole swung between their shoulders. It was Turkey Feather and Running Deer.

  “I killed it!” cried Turkey Feather, shrilly. “Running Deer gave me the gun to hold and just then the deer appeared and I fired.”

  Shagbark came out of his lodge, limping. He put his hand on Turkey Feather’s head. The boy seemed to have grown half a head taller.

  “My son,” said the old man, solemnly, “I am proud of you. When a man has killed a deer, he is a great hunter.” Then he turned to Running Deer. “My son,” he said, “of you, too, I am proud and that justly.”

  All the people came running out of the lodges. Swiftly a fire was laid and while the story was being told, the deer was skinned, dressed and divided according to the strictest rules of justice. That night, the smell of roasting venison filled every lodge in Genishau and all the villagers enjoyed the taste of good meat.

  Two days later the hunting party returned. With the arrival of the men, the town became suddenly alive. The hunters brought large quantities of bear meat and oil, dried and fresh venison tied up with bark strings, and piles of fresh hides. When they reached the outskirts of the village they dropped their loads and went forward to notify the women that food awaited them. Out ran the women eagerly, making loud exclamations of delight, to return with backs heavily loaded.

  The village became the scene of renewed activity, as the women pulled the fresh venison into strips, hung and dried it in the sun, over smoldering fires. Tanning operations began with the scraping, cleaning, and soaking of hides. Soon there was game in abundance hanging from the rafters of the bark lodges, and skins were piled high in the store-houses. The famine was over.

  The return of the men from the winter hunt meant feasting and rejoicing. All had plenty and no one spared eating or giving. The Indians strolled from house to house, visiting and eating, always eating. The whole village celebrated the hunting frolic for nine days by singing and dancing to the beating of drums, eating, smoking and playing games.

  Wearing her new deerskin moccasins, Molly stood with Josiah in front of Red Bird’s lodge. Together they watched a moccasin game played by a group of boys and young men. Four moccasins were placed upside-down upon a blanket before each side and the players, with long sticks, took turns guessing under which moccasin a hidden pebble lay concealed, while a flat drum was beat in time to their singing.

  “I knew you had not run away,” said Molly, softly, “When I heard the gun was gone, I knew you had gone after meat.”

  “I couldn’t bear to see you so hungry and do nothing about it,” said Josiah. “The Indians forbade me to go, but they were glad, to get the meat when I brought it. And now—aren’t they funny? When they have plenty, they eat everything up at once! Why don’t they save some of it? Even the white people know better than that.”

  “It is quite a change,” admitted Molly, “from one meal a day to twenty. Every time I go into the lodge, someone is eating. They have no regular meals at all. I’m getting as fat as a woodchuck. When they offer you food, it’s bad manners to refuse and they’re offended, so I have to eat!” Then she added, laughing: “They shouldn’t be so wasteful, but they never think of that. It’s the Indian way, I suppose!”

  13

  Willing Sacrifice

  “NOW IS THE TIME when the sap begins to flow,” said Molly. “Spring will soon be here, so we are starting for the sugar camp. You’re not going with us, Josiah?”

  “No, only the women and girls make sugar, I understand,” Josiah answered. “The men are going on the spring fur-hunt, but I can’t go along. I’m to help the Indian boys make traps and tend them. Maybe we’ll take some raccoon and a fox or two…. What is it, anyhow—maple sugar?”

  “It’s that sweet stuff they put in bear’s oil,” explained Molly, “to dip their meat in. It took me a long time to get used to sweet food instead of salty. They get it from the maple trees. It’s the sap boiled down into sugar, Earth Woman told me.”

  “We never had it at home,” said Josiah. “Ma never did either,” said Molly. “I wonder Pa didn’t take some from our maple trees, too, if it’s so easy to get. The Indians know so many things…Is the canoe nearly done?”

  “Yes,” answered Josiah. “As soon as the seams are covered with spruce gum to make them water-tight. That’s what Shagbark is doing now.”

  Molly looked at the new canoe—one long, perfect piece of red elm bark—which lay on the shore, framed in with small branches stuck into the ground to hold it in canoe shape. Within, along the bottom and sides, white-ash pieces and ribs had been inserted. The two ends were closed alike and sewed with bark strips, making sharp, vertical prows. Shagbark, bent over, was working busily.

  “I wish you could go along to the sugar camp,” begged Molly.

  “If I go anywhere,” burst out Josiah, gruffly, “it won’t be to a sugar camp.” Then he lowered his voice so Shagbark should not hear. “It won’t be on any Indian trail. I’ll make a trail of my own through the woods on which they can never find me. They are clever, but I can outwit them.”

  “You won’t go till I get back from the sugar camp, will you?” asked Molly. “Promise me you won’t.”

  “I can’t promise that,” said Josiah, firmly. “You don’t know what you ask. If I get a chance to go, I must take it. Surely you want me to, don’t you?”

  “Yes…” said Molly, slowly and unhappily. “If you get a chance…I want you to take it.”

  “The canoe’s been fun to make,” said Josiah, changing the subject abruptly, “and Shagbark seemed to want my help. Besides, you know I like to keep busy.”

  Molly put her hand to her mouth and choked back the tears. She kept staring at the canoe while Shagbark removed the frame of branches. She saw him pick up the canoe and drop it lightly on the water, but she scarcely realized what was happening until she heard Shagbark speak.

  “Step into the canoe, my son,” said Shagbark to Running Deer. “The canoe is yours!”

  “Mine?” cried Josiah, his eyes sparkling. “You don’t mean that I can go where I like in it? I thought a male captive was not allowed to leave the village.”

  In answer, Shagbark silently handed the white boy a paddle.

  “May your canoe carry you safely over rough waters and take you wherever the Great Spirit may lead you!” said the old man, solemnly.

  “Oh, Josiah!” cried Molly, torn between happiness over this unexpected good fortune and Uncertainty over its possibilities. “Then you’re not going trapping with the little boys after all, to take raccoons and a fox or two?”

  But Josiah did not answer.

  With a smile on his face and a firmer set to his shoulders, Running Deer stepped into the canoe and shoved off. He lifted the paddle high over his head for a moment in farewell, then began paddling upstream.

  Molly watched him go with a sinking heart. She wished that she understood him better. Would he be loyal to Shagbark’s trust or would he run away now that spring was coming? Was there a new brightness in his eyes, a new glint of determination? Would he debase the beautiful gift of the canoe by using it to help him on his return to Virginia? Was Shagbark suspicious or innocent of Running Deer’s intentions?

  Molly took one last look at the straight figure in the canoe as it rounded a bend. Then she turned to Shagbark. She looked up at him, but she did not need to speak. The old man knew her thoughts.

  Shagbark put his hand on her shoulder. “Do not fret,” he said gently. “Running Deer may be trusted. He will return. He will be more apt to return if he is not confined too close. We have not done wisely to keep him close like an animal caught in a trap.”

  “Oh, are you sure?” begged Molly.

  “I am very sure, little one,” said Shagbark. “He will return.”

  Beaver Girl came running. “It is time to go, Corn
Tassel,” she announced. “Squirrel Woman is very angry because you are not ready.”

  Snow still covered the ground and except for the warmth of the midday sun, it might still have been winter. In front of her lodge, Red Bird was rolling up dried meat and packing it on sleds for the journey. The other women in the village were doing the same. Gradually they all assembled in front of Panther Woman’s lodge and waited.

  Panther Woman gave the signal and they started off in the direction of the maple forests, accompanied by a few men and boys. Some of the women pulled the loaded sleds, others carried the younger children in baby frames or pack-baskets. Storm Cloud, Star Flower, Woodchuck, Chipmunk and all the other children ran ahead, skipping and shouting happily.

  With Blue Jay in a pack-basket on her back, Molly trudged slowly along behind the others. Despite Shagbark’s reassuring words, her heart was very heavy. Each step was taking her away from Josiah, She knew she could not go on living with the Indians after Josiah went away. His coming had changed her life entirely and given her the first real happiness she had had since Marsh Creek Hollow.

  Beaver Girl left the others and waited to walk beside Corn Tassel. Beaver Girl had her baby sister, Little Snail, in a baby frame on her back. She walked quietly and did not speak. She knew that when the white girl captive had tears in her eyes she was thinking of her white family far away, and Beaver Girl was sorry. From time to time she glanced at Corn Tassel hopefully, but the white girl did not look up or smile.

  After a journey of several hours the women and children reached the sugar camp. In a clearing at the edge of a fine grove of maple trees stood a few bark lodges. The women and children crowded into them, first clearing out great piles of snow and dry leaves. Here they were to stay for the length of the sugar season.

  The party set to work at once. Before nightfall maple trees had been felled and several logs hollowed out by the men, making troughs to hold the freshly gathered sap. The women washed and mended all the bark vessels left in the sap-houses from the year before.