by Ron Carter
Just less than one mile east of the farm Ben and Lydia Fielding had cleared in the northern reaches of the Vermont forests, Eli Stroud tied the family horse to a tree, grasped his Pennsylvania rifle in his right hand, and dropped to his haunches for half a minute to listen and watch the rhythms of the forest. Squirrels darted and scolded, jays and bluebirds challenged and argued, and sounds of dripping and running water were everywhere. A huge porcupine waddled toward a rotted tree stump to rip into it for worms and grubs, then stopped to raise its nose, testing the strange taint in the air. The scent of man brought him around to stare toward Eli with eyes too weak to find him. Of all the creatures in the forest, only three had no fear of humans: the bear, the wolverine, and the porcupine. The bear because of its incomparable strength, the wolverine because it did not know the meaning of fear, and the porcupine because of a cantankerous disposition that turned its shield of barbed quills into weapons that inflicted unforgettable pain. All knowledgeable creatures, including man and the bear, gave ground to the porcupine. Eli silently watched the animal turn his back and waddle on, contemptuous of the human he could smell, but not see.
Eli raised to full height, and without thought, all his learning of the forest came alive. He saw all that moved ahead of him and heard all sounds, and it all took its place instantly. Silently he moved ahead, instinctively picking his way so that his moccasins made no sound, watching through the bare branches of the trees for movement. He had covered thirty yards when he again went to his haunches behind a waist-high outcrop of rough Vermont granite, and carefully laid his rifle over the top. He dropped to one knee and raised his head far enough to peer south sixty yards, where a stream flowed, and a stand of pines partially hid a place where a large dome of natural salt broke the surface of the forest floor. He cocked the rifle and waited, motionless, silent, with the Chinook wind in his face and the late morning sun warm on his shoulders.
Timid snowshoe rabbits, fat with their heavy white winter coats, came to drink at the stream and work on the salt for a moment, then disappear. A raccoon passed, pausing long enough to grasp salt crumbs, poke them into her mouth, drink, wash her face, and move on. Twenty minutes passed before Eli came to a focus. Long ears had moved in the trees, and ten seconds later a young spike buck moved cautiously to the salt, ears flicking, twisting, listening to sounds that only his enormous ears could hear. He was standing broadside when Eli slowly brought his finger to the trigger of the rifle and laid his cheek against the stock, then brought the blade on the front of the barrel into the notch at the rear, judged the shot at sixty yards, allowed nothing for the breeze that was blowing directly into the muzzle of the rifle, buried the gun sights in the deer’s neck just below and behind the ear, and squeezed off the shot.
The crack silenced all other sounds and echoed off through the bare tree branches, and the young buck dropped where he stood with his neck broken by the .50-caliber ball. Eli rose and walked forward, tapping fresh powder from his powder horn into the muzzle of the rifle as he moved. He worked the hickory ramrod to seat the powder, then the greased linen patch, then the round lead ball, and drove them home. He tapped more powder into the pan and snapped the frizzen closed, ready for the next shot, should a panther or a bear or a wolverine challenge him for the meat before he could get it onto the horse, and home.
He stood over the fallen deer and touched the open eye with the tip of the rifle barrel. The eye did not blink, and he stood the rifle against a tree. He walked the few paces to the stream, cupped his hands full of water, and returned to release it on the head of the dead deer. In Iroquois, he thanked the animal for its sacrifice—that he, and his sister, Lydia, and her husband, Ben Fielding, and the children, might have fresh meat to keep them strong, and he commended the soul of the deer into the hands of Taronhiawagon, the Iroquois God. All this he did with little thought, from seventeen years of training as an Iroquois warrior. It did not occur to him that the brief Iroquois ceremony might offend Christianity.
Ten minutes later he had cut the scent sacks from the inside of the hind legs of the deer, and was leading the patient old bay mare west on the wet, spongy forest floor, rifle in hand, with the carcass tied across the packsaddle. He came into a clearing, walked past the small cabin he and Ben had built for Eli twenty-five yards east of the Fieldings’ house, and stopped at the low barn. Ben came picking his way through the mud from the house to help hang the carcass from a barn rafter and put the mare in her pen while Eli got a tub and a bucket of fresh well water. Eli had his belt knife in his hand, ready to open the deer, when he heard the door of the main house open, and his sister, Lydia, called.
“The children want to know if they can watch. They need to get out of the house.”
Eli stepped into the sunlight and for a moment looked at his sister, tall, striking, her honey-brown hair pulled behind her head. The children were clustered around her, already in their coats, eyes pleading. Hannah, in her tenth year, with her mother’s eyes and her father’s generous mouth, holding the hand of Samuel, her seven-year-old brother who had Ben’s spread of shoulders and unruly shock of hair. Beside Samuel stood his brother Nathan, four years old, with his dark hair and dark eyes. And next to him was Laura, Eli’s daughter, almost four years old, who every day reminded him more and more of her mother, Mary, who had given her life in the birth of her daughter on July 12, 1780.
Eli considered for a moment. Should Nathan and Laura watch the cutting and detail of dressing a deer? Four years of age? Old enough to know this part of life? He made up his mind.
“All of them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do they promise to stay out of the way?”
The children’s voices were a resounding chorus, “We promise!”
“You won’t cry when I have to cut the deer?”
“No.”
“All right. Stay out of the mud. Lydia, send the sack for the offal, and some rags.”
Beaming, the children covered the twenty yards at a trot, trying to step where the patchy snow still held. Eli’s heart swelled as he watched them come.
Without a word he began: Carefully punch through the hide where the brisket ends, slip his hand inside the cavity with the knife blade pointing outward to avoid slitting an intestine, cut upward to the vent, make a circular cut around the bung, put the large wooden tub beneath the carcass, and drop the entrails into it. Remove the head, make the cut that divides the brisket, down the throat, then use the ax to split the brisket bone and open the lower end of the hanging carcass. Cut the diaphragm on both sides, loosen the lungs and heart, and drop them in the tub on top of the entrails. Set aside the heart, kidneys, liver, and sweetbreads, then use the ax to open the skull to remove the brains and put them with the other offal. Drag the tub with the entrails to the pigpen beside the barn and dump it into the pig trough for the sow and her eight weaner pigs. Fetch a bucket of water from the well, wash the offal, put it in the sack Lydia had sent with Hannah, tie it shut, and set it on clean straw. Back to the well for two more buckets of water to wash the inside of the carcass twice with the rags, then pry it wide open and jam three, thick, peeled pine branches inside, crosswise, to hold it open and let the body heat out, so the flesh would not go bone-sour. Finally, another bucket of water to wash his hands and knife, and the ax, and wipe them dry with the rags.
Eli straightened and looked at the children. The expressions on their faces were a rare mix of fascination, wonder, revulsion, and acceptance. None had uttered a sound in the half hour they had watched.
Hannah ventured a question. “When do you take off the skin?”
“In a few days. Let the meat age a little, and cool out. We’ll salt down the hide for a few weeks until the hair starts to slip, and then we’ll make some moccasins. Would you like to have some moccasins like the Iroquois?”
Hannah’s eyes grew large. “Honest?”
“If Ben and Lydia agree.”
Samuel stammered, “Like the Indians?”
“Ju
st like the Indians.”
Samuel spun on his heel and sprinted for the house shouting, “Mama, Mama!”
Eli grinned, shoved his knife back into its sheath, picked up his rifle, and swept Laura up with his free arm and followed Hannah and Nathan back to the house. They stomped the mud off their feet before entering, and Lydia met them, laughing.
“What’s this about Indians? Samuel says he’s going to be an Indian.”
Grinning, Eli laid his rifle on the table and set Laura on the plank floor. “Well, now, that could be. There’s enough hide on that deer to make about two pair of small moccasins. If you and Ben agree, maybe Hannah and I and Samuel can do something about that.”
“We’ll see.” Lydia pointed. “Ben’s working on the smokehouse. He said the snow put a leak in the roof. When will the deer hams be ready to go in?”
“A few days. Depends on the weather. I’ll go split some hickory for the smokehouse fire.”
The sun was deep into the western trees when Ben and Eli went to the barn. They finished milking the Jersey cow and feeding the livestock in full darkness and washed before they came to the supper table. They bowed their heads while Ben said grace, and the instant the “amen” was said, Samuel turned to his father with desperate pleading in his wide eyes.
“Eli says he can make some moccasins. Just like the Indians. Can I have moccasins? Please?”
Ben glanced at Eli. “From the deer hide?”
Eli nodded.
Ben fell into thought for a moment, and Hannah said quietly, “Me, too?”
Ben glanced at Lydia and a silent communication passed between them. A judicious look came onto Ben’s face as he spoke.
“Pass the potatoes.”
Instantly Hannah handed him the wooden bowl of steaming potatoes.
Ben cleared his throat. “There are certain things that have to be understood about children wearing moccasins.”
Hannah’s shoulders slumped. Here it comes.
“First off, they can’t be running around the woods away from the clearing because if they do, the Indians might snatch them because they think they’re Indian children, with those moccasins.”
Hannah closed her eyes in resignation. That’s nonsense.
Samuel blurted, “They might steal us? Like they did Uncle Eli?”
Ben looked at him like Solomon. “They might.”
Samuel’s eyes were sparkling. “Honest? Go live with the Indians?” Visions of the deep forest and bears and battles danced in his head.
Ben reached for the mutton platter. “Second, children who wear moccasins have to do their chores without one single complaint, because that’s how Indian children do.”
Lydia was battling an outburst of laughter. Eli had his face down to hide a grin while he worked on his food. Laura and Nathan were sitting like small statues, wide-eyed, trying to understand what was going on.
Ben chewed on his mutton for a few seconds before he continued. “Third, they can’t argue and quarrel with each other, because when Indian children do that, the chief puts them in a canoe and sends them down the river and no one ever sees them again.”
Samuel’s eyes were popping. “What river?”
Eli raised his head to look at Ben, waiting to hear what river he was talking about, since there was no large river nearby.
Ben’s brow furrowed for a moment before he answered. “The Whatsit River.”
The corner of Hannah’s mouth curled in contempt. “Where’s the Whatsit River?”
Eli was still watching Ben. Lydia held mutton on her fork, waiting.
Ben pursed his mouth for a minute. “Well, only the Indians know that. That’s why no one ever sees the children again.”
Hannah put her fork down in disgust. “You’re making this up.”
Ben looked wounded, and his voice raised considerably. “I am not! I read it in the Bible!”
Hannah stared at him accusingly. “Where in the Bible?”
“Revelation. Right there at the first, where it talks about all the four- headed monsters. That’s where the Whatsit River is. Right where those monsters are. Those are the monsters that get the children and we never see them again.”
Lydia could no longer contain herself, and she burst into laughter. Samuel flinched, and Hannah shook her head. Eli laid his fork down and chuckled out loud.
Hannah could take no more. “Can we have the moccasins?”
Ben looked puzzled. “What moccasins?”
“The ones Eli is going to make for us.”
Ben’s expression instantly changed to one of understanding. “Oh. Those moccasins. Yes. You can.”
With the supper dishes done and the children in their long nightshirts, the family knelt around the table for evening prayer. The children hugged the grown-ups, and climbed the stairs up to the loft where they went to their beds. Outside, the Chinook wind still held, and the children drifted to sleep with the sounds of melting snow dripping from the eaves of the roof.
Soon Eli stood and picked up his rifle. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
Lydia followed him to the door and watched him cover the short distance to his own small cabin. She watched until the light glowed, dull behind the curtain drawn over the window near the door, then turned away. More than an hour passed while Lydia fussed and puttered in the kitchen, having her quiet time to let the cares and troubles of the day fade while she gathered inner strength for tomorrow. It was half past nine o’clock when she sat down at the dining table with the large family Bible. For twenty minutes she pored over the letters of Paul, raising her head often as she pondered the meanings that came to her. She closed the Bible and spoke to Ben, seated before the fireplace, deep in his own thoughts.
“Time for bed. I’ll bank the fire.”
“I’ll do it.” He rose and reached for the small iron shovel in the fireplace rack.
For a moment Lydia watched him, then went to the window by the front door to draw the shade aside for a last look into the yard, as she always did. The dull light still glowed in Eli’s window. She turned to Ben.
“Eli’s lamp’s still burning.”
Ben glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Five minutes before ten o’clock.
“He’s usually in bed by now. Any reason you know why he’d still be up?”
Lydia shook her head, and there was alarm in her voice. “None.”
“I’ll go see.”
Lydia was moving toward her coat as she answered. “Let me go.”
Ben considered. “I’ll stay with the children.”
Lydia put on her coat and heavy shoes, draped a shawl over her head, took a lighted lantern, and picked her way to the cabin to knock on the door. A few moments later it opened far enough for the light to frame her, then swung wide open. A look of puzzlement crossed Eli’s face as he invited her in, closed the door, and hung his rifle back on the pegs above the door frame.
There was concern in his voice as he spoke. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, with us. Your light was still on.”
“I was reading.” He gestured to the small, crude table fashioned from white pine.
She looked. The Bible lay open in the pale light of a lamp.
“Oh. I’ll go if you’re all right.” She had her hand on the bolt to the cabin door when Eli spoke.
“Have you got a few minutes?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
He pointed to the table. “I’ve been reading from the New Testament about Jesus. His resurrection. He says everyone is going to resurrect.” He laid his hand flat on the table and turned earnest eyes to Lydia.
“Will Mary come out of that grave? Will she look like she did before? Will I see her again?”
Lydia’s breath came short. “Where are you reading?”
“John. New Testament. Fourth chapter.”
“Jesus said we’ll all resurrect, and we will. You’ll see Mary again, just like she was.”
“How do you know?”
Lyd
ia did not hesitate. “In my heart. Past anything else I know in this life. You’ll be with her again, and Laura. The three of you.”
Eli looked deeper into Lydia than anything she had ever experienced, and then he slowly nodded. “I can wait.”
She stood. “Is there anything else?”
He smiled. “No.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“Go to bed soon?”
“Soon.”
She turned on her heel, and he stood in the door to watch until she reached her own house, and Ben met her at her own door. They waved across the black, muddy yard, and closed the doors.
The warm wind held through the night. Mud and puddles slowed morning chores. With the livestock fed and the bucket of thick, frothy Jersey milk divided, half on the breakfast table in a pitcher, half cooling in the root cellar for butter and cheese, Lydia called them to the table for fried eggs and thick slices of bacon, and bread and butter and milk. Samuel waited until Lydia said grace before he turned to Eli.
“Is the deerskin ready yet? For moccasins?”
Eli shook his head. “Won’t be ready for maybe six or eight weeks. We just have to be patient.”
Samuel’s face clouded. “Will I still be little?”
“Yes. It just seems long, but it really isn’t.”
Eli’s word was enough, and Samuel said, “Oh,” and stuffed his mouth with bread.
The breakfast dishes were finished, and Lydia and Hannah had the children up in the loft making the beds when Eli and Ben walked out the front door into bright sunlight and the warm wind. Birds everywhere were declaring territorial rights, and red and gray squirrels, fat with their thick winter hair darted and scolded. The two men picked their way through the mud to swing open the big door into the low barn and walk inside. Eli leaned his rifle against the inside wall, and each took a three-tined, wooden pitchfork and separated—Eli to clean out the horse stall, Ben the milking stanchion. They finished, spread clean straw, Eli picked up his rifle, and they were walking back out the door when Eli slowed and stopped, and turned his head to listen in the wind. Ben looked at him with the silent question, and Eli hesitated, then raised an arm to point due south.
