by Lois Lenski
“Everything takes so long,” sighed Molly. “It took so long till I grew strong enough to pound and beat the clay. It took longer still to shape the coils evenly into a pot. So many small crooked ones I had to throw away before I could shape a large one. And now that it is shaped, it takes so long to fire and harden it.”
“A good thing is never made in a hurry,” said Earth Woman again. “When you have learned to work as slowly and thoroughly as an Indian woman, you may well be proud.”
Molly ran to Beaver Girl’s lodge and brought her back with her. In the late afternoon, while the Indian children and some of the women looked on, Earth Woman took the pots out of the cold ashes. Exclamations of delight greeted Beaver Girl’s pots, then the crowd waited impatiently, for it was Corn Tassel’s pot they most wanted to see.
It came out last. Earth Woman brushed the ashes off with care and held it up high. The pot was round and full at the bottom, with a narrow, graceful neck. It had a turned-over collar at the top, which was scalloped along the edge. The crowd waited in silence. Not a word was said.
“It is not cracked, is it?” asked Molly, breathless.
Earth Woman turned it slowly round in her hands. “I see no crack,” she said, solemnly.
“It has no holes for leaking?” asked Molly, full of fear.
“I see no holes,” said Earth Woman, peering inside.
“It looks a trifle crooked, does it not?” asked Molly, anxiously. “It bulges more on one side than the other, does it not? But when it is a girl’s first pot, that is not a serious matter, is it?”
Earth Woman turned the pot around and looked at it from all sides. “I see no bulges,” she said.
“Will it hold water for boiling corn?” asked Molly, eagerly.
“It will hold water,” said Earth Woman. She put the pot in Molly’s arms. “The pot is beautiful, Corn Tassel!” she said, with a broad smile. “Take it to Red Bird.”
“Corn Tassel has made a cooking-pot!” sang Woodchuck, Star Flower and the other children. “Corn Tassel has made a fine cooking-pot! Oh, let us eat green corn boiled in Corn Tassel’s cooking pot!”
Molly walked in triumph to Red Bird’s lodge, followed by Earth Woman, Beaver Girl and the shouting, laughing children.
Red Bird and her two daughters came out to meet them.
“A cooking-pot for Grandmother Red Bird!” said Molly, holding out the pot. “May the green corn boiled in this pot always lie sweet on the tongue!”
“Ohi!” cried Red Bird, taking the pot in her hands and smiling broadly. “Corn Tassel has made as fine a pot as Beaver Girl of long experience! Come, we will fill it with green corn to boil. Shining Star has gathered the first ripe corn of the season. We will eat green corn to honor Corn Tassel’s cooking-pot.”
“Ugh!” grunted Squirrel Woman. “A brass kettle is more useful. Earthen pots are foolishness.”
But Molly did not hear. Not since Josiah went away had she felt so happy. Her excited thoughts tumbled over in her mind. Could there ever be any happiness greater than this—the joy of making a beautiful thing with one’s own hands?
“The Great Spirit is happy, too,” whispered Beaver Girl shyly, as if reading the white girl’s thoughts. “He made the beautiful world with his hands and took pleasure in its beauty.”
“Come, Corn Tassel,” said Shining Star. “Come inside the lodge. I have a surprise for you.”
Wondering, Molly and Beaver Girl followed the Indian woman into the lodge. The children waited impatiently outside the door. “Corn Tassel has made a fine cooking-pot,” they sang over and over.
“Hush! Hold thy noisy tongues!” cried Squirrel Woman, angrily.
She pointed across the meadow to the lodge of Chief Burning Sky. “Visitors have arrived. Strange men have come unannounced to the village. A dark cloud lies low on the horizon.”
Red Bird and Squirrel Woman stared uneasily at the Chief’s lodge.
“Pale-faces!” cried Squirrel Woman. “Pale-faces have come.”
In silence, the women and children waited. Gray Wolf came running up, panting.
“Chief Burning Sky says that pale-faces, Englishmen, have come to have secret talk with the Chief and the sachems.”
“Englishmen?” cried Red Bird. “Did he not say Frenchmen?”
Gray Wolf bent over and spoke whispered words in Red Bird’s ear. Then he hurried away. Red Bird and Squirrel Woman talked together in low tones.
The flap was raised and Molly stepped out. The children stared to see her, then clapped their hands and cried out with joy. For she wore a fine new gown, made in Seneca fashion, not of deerskin, but of cloth. Her blue skirt and bright red broadcloth leggings were richly embroidered in bead designs. Her over-dress of flowered calico was fastened down the front with a row of silver brooches.
“Corn Tassel is a Seneca woman now!” cried the children. “Corn Tassel is dressed as fine as Beaver Girl!”
Molly looked down at her new finery with becoming modesty. How beautiful the clothes were! How lovely the bead designs! How kind of Shining Star to do all the work! Just when she had made up her mind to be content with deerskin…
Up came Squirrel Woman and took her roughly by the arm. “Go within! Go within and take off the new gown quickly. Put on deerskin. Then come with me!”
Molly looked up bewildered.
“But the green corn!” cried the children, unhappily. “Corn Tassel was to eat green corn with us.”
“There will be no corn to eat tonight,” said Red Bird, sadly but sternly.
“My pot!” cried Molly, seeing it was no longer in Red Bird’s arms. “What have you done with my pot? Is it cracked? Does it leak? Or is it that it bulges on one side more than the other, that you cook no corn tonight?”
“Come!” commanded Squirrel Woman, irritably. “This is no time for words. We must make haste. Go within. Take off those garments…”
“There is no time,” interrupted Red Bird. “Take her as she is.” She thrust a blanket into Squirrel Woman’s arms. “Go quickly.”
“Is something wrong with my pot that I know nothing about?” cried Molly tearfully. But no one listened.
Away from the lodge strode Squirrel Woman, pulling Molly along behind her. They entered the corn-field, hurrying through the rows. Soon they came to one of the pole platforms.
“But it grows dark!” cried Molly, indignantly. “Kah-kah comes not to steal corn at night.”
The woman tossed the blanket up and pointed to the ladder.
“Shall I search out the ripest corn for Red Bird and bring it in?” asked Molly, hopefully. “The children are waiting to fill the new pot with corn and boil it for a feast. Shining Star said my new gown was in honor of the feast.”
“Climb up!” ordered Squirrel Woman, and when the girl obeyed, she went on: “Stay here. Do not leave this platform until I send for you. Sleep here tonight. I will send food tomorrow. I will send for you when it is time for you to return to the lodge.”
The woman stood still for a moment, without speaking. As Molly watched her, she noticed a strange expression on her face. She was not cross or angry—she was troubled. Wondering, Molly watched her go.
The night was long and the pole floor hard, with only a blanket for softness. Molly stretched out, thinking of her fine, new cloth garments and of the pot she had made, but her pleasure in them had been spoiled. For several hours she tossed and turned, then, lulled by the rustling of the corn, she fell asleep. When she awoke, she was surprised to find that in spite of her discomfort, morning had come. Lame and sore, she climbed down from the platform.
The new pot must be sitting on the fire, filled now with fresh green corn. She could see the children crowding round. The thought of it made her very hungry, but she remembered Squirrel Woman’s words and decided it would be wise to obey.
But why should she stay all alone in the corn-field? Why should she stay alone and starve? She pulled off an ear of corn, stripped it and nibbled the soft, milky grains. She remem
bered seeing strangers before Chief Burning Sky’s lodge when she came outdoors wearing her new gown. Surely the strangers were gone by now. The sun rose higher and higher till she knew it was long past midday.
Why should she be hidden away from strangers? If they were pale-faces, she must see and talk to them. Yes, it was because they were pale-faces that Squirrel Woman had brought her here. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? What if someone had come to take her home? What if they came and she never knew it? What if the Indians kept her hidden and sent them away again? These alarming thoughts spurred her onward, as she ran pell-mell back to the village. She must find the pale-faces and talk to them. Now, at last she knew why the women had rushed so to hide her.
Straight to the council house she ran, and there heard voices. No, she was not too late. They had not gone. Panting and breathless, she stood beside the building and listened. Then all her courage oozed away. She was afraid to talk to the pale-faces, but at least she would listen. Down she dropped on the grass and hugged her knees with her arms. A man was talking in Indian. She knew by the way he said his words that he was a pale-face.
“The expedition of three thousand British and Indians was organized by General Pridieux at Fort Ontario,” the voice was saying, “but the General died before victory. Sir William Johnson, his second in command, stormed the enemy positions and captured the fort on July 25th. Fort Niagara, like Fort Duquesne, is now in the hands of the English. The French are finished. The French have gone forever. The English will take Quebec next.”
The words brought back to Molly a sharp memory of Old Fallenash, the white trader. “When the English take Fort Niagara,” he had said, “I’ll have to run fast to save my hide.”
Where was Fallenash now? Was he gone forever? Had he been killed by the English at his trading-post on Buffalo Greek? Molly put her hand on the string of glass beads about her neck, the beads which the kind trader had given her.
After a pause, Molly heard Chief Burning Sky speaking, slowly measuring each word: “Many moons ago, there was a time when there were no pale-faces in the land of the Iroquois. Then were the people happy and content. The first pale-faces who came were the French traders and hunters. We gave them our skins and furs and they gave us steel hatchets, tomahawks, paint and tobacco. We made them our friends, not knowing what friendship with the pale-faces would lead to. The Indians were happy until the pale-faces began to change their way of life. Now, the Indian wants cloth to wear in place of deerskin garments, blankets to take the place of fur robes, brass kettles in place of earthen pots and fire-arms for bows and arrows. Worst of all, the pale-face brings fire-water…Can he who pours down our throats water that burns like fire, be called friend?”
“Sir William Johnson wishes earnestly to make friends with the Iroquois,” replied the Englishman. “Sir William has made a home in the forest with the Mohawks. He has married a Mohawk wife. He understands the Iroquois and looks to them for help. The Iroquois and the English together can accomplish great things. Will not the Senecas help?”
“The Senecas are not yet ready to speak,” answered Burning Sky. “Since my sachems have decided that the matter is important enough for a Council of the People of the Long House, I have asked this runner to be ready. He will take this wampum message to the Cayugas, the Onondagas, the Oneidas and the Mohawks. If the subject interests all and they are agreeable, a meeting of the League of the Iroquois will be held.”
“They will decide to come over to us, of course,” said Captain Morgan, in a casual tone.
“No man knows what they will decide,” said Burning Sky. “The French are old friends of long standing, who are badly in need of help. The English are new friends, bringing sweet words and fair promises. Sachems, warriors and chiefs from each nation of the Iroquois will come and speak from the fulness of their hearts. After all sides of the question have been discussed, the council will decide whether we shall help the French or the English.”
“Let the swift runner say to the Chiefs that the matter is urgent!” cried Captain Morgan.
“No matter is so important that, it should be decided in haste,” replied Chief Burning Sky. “The greater the matter, the more need for cool counsel, for slow and careful deliberation.”
Molly saw the runner, bare except for a waist cloth and moccasins, with knife at his belt and wampum in hand, dash out of the door of the council house. His feet, like flying wings, seemed never to touch the ground as he started off on his long journey over hill, stream and valley.
There were no more words. Molly wondered if the talk was over. Still thinking of Old Fallenash, she walked to the front of the building. Perhaps the Englishman would know where he had gone. She would ask him as he went out the door.
The flap was up, the door was open wide. Holding tightly to the door-post, Molly leaned over and peeped inside.
“What!” the Englishman’s voice cried out in surprise.” A blond Indian? An Indian with yellow hair?”
Hastily Molly turned and dashed off. But she was too late. The strong arm of a serving-man took her by the shoulder and marched her back into the council house. Then she forgot about old Fallenash.
She saw a white man, dressed not in blue like the man at Fort Duquesne, but in a bright red soldier’s uniform. She had never seen a red so red before. She could not take her eyes off it. But at last she did.
She looked up into the face of the man who wore the suit and she saw him smiling at her like a friend. She looked down at her handsome’ cloth garments which so short a time ago had seemed so beautiful. Now they were hateful to her sight. She was ashamed of her bright red leggings, ashamed of her Indian moccasins and she tried to hide them beneath her skirt.
“Ah! A pale-face! So I thought!” said the man in English. “Don’t be afraid, child. I only wish to talk to you.”
Molly did not like the man’s smile. His eyes were cold gray and his face looked hard. She turned away, frightened. She remembered the pole platform and Squirrel Woman’s words, forbidding her to leave it. She was sorry now she had come. She could find no English words to say. Her tongue was sealed. She must hurry back to the corn-field. She twisted and pulled, trying to free herself from the man’s tight grasp.
“Ah!” cried Captain Morgan, chuckling. “A little wildcat already! An untamed savage, growing up like a wild beast in the forest! Does she bite and scratch, too?”
He turned to Chief Burning Sky. “She has lost her childhood’s speech, no doubt. How long has she been here?”
“Twelve moons, more or less,” answered Burning Sky, with a show of indifference.
“So short a time? But time enough, with so young a child, to blot out all memory of home and family. Time enough to cause her to forget her native tongue—the Indians would see to that.” Captain Morgan turned again to the Chief. “The little white flower is drooping,” he said, slowly. “The wilderness path is too rough for her tender feet. Will you not send her back to her native soil?”
“By the River Genesee, the soil is black and rich,” said Burning Sky, with sternness in his voice. “A plant is nourished by the soil it feeds on, by the winds that blow, the rains that fall and the sun that shines. The little white flower has put her roots down deep. She takes nourishment and strength from the same sun, rain and wind that give life to the Senecas. If she were transplanted again, she would wither and die.”
“I wonder how much she has forgotten,” said the Englishman. Then he added, as if to himself: “If only I could make her speak…” He stared at the girl as he might have stared at a hard green bud waiting for it to unfold and open.
“Our Father Which art in Heaven…” he began, slowly, then he kept on to the end of the prayer which every English-speaking child could say by heart.
The words were enough. They were enough to unlock all the doors of memory. After the first sentence, Molly began to tremble. Then she looked up and followed each movement of the man’s lips to the end. She ran to him swiftly and knelt at his knees.
“Ma used to say that over and over,” she cried out in English. “Oh tell me, sir, what does it mean? I can’t seem to remember any more. They make me talk always in Indian. I’ve had no one to talk to in English since Josiah went away…” Like a hard rainstorm pelting the dry earth the words came pouring, then as quickly died away.
In the back of the room, Molly saw the other white men and Burning Sky’s sachems staring at her and she could not bear it.
“I thought so,” said Captain Morgan. “I knew she was English.” He pulled a handful of gold pieces from his pocket. He held them out to Chief Burning Sky.
“How much do you want for her?” he asked bluntly. “Any ransom that you may name I will gladly pay.”
Not till then did Molly know that the Englishman wanted to take her away. In the back of the room Old Shagbark was standing. She hated the Englishman’s smile. She wanted to run to the safety of Shagbark’s arms—Old Shagbark who could always be trusted.
“I’ll take her to Fort Niagara,” she heard the Englishman saying. “I shall give her a good home and every advantage. She will be happier among people of her own kind.”
Chief Burning Sky rose up. Like a tall, strong oak tree, braced against the storm, he stood.
“The Senecas do not sell or exchange captives,” he said in a hard, cold voice. “After adoption, the captive is a full-blooded Seneca. To surrender this child would be to give up an Iroquois to the English. It is indeed a noble privilege to be chosen an Iroquois by adoption. She is flesh of our flesh and blood of our blood. We will part with our hearts sooner than with this child.”
“May I not speak to her family?” asked Captain Morgan.
“It would be of no use,” replied Burning Sky. “They took her to replace their son who died on the Pennsylvania frontier. They love her as they loved him. They will never give her up.”
Chief Burning Sky and Captain Morgan walked out of the council house, each followed by his men.
“I must go,” cried Molly, trying to free herself from the man’s hand.
