The Going Back Portal

by Connie Lacy

  Mother looked Isham Barnes directly in the eye. He replied by raising his chin as if he were no longer the fearful squirrel, then locked eyes with me as though trying to see the bottom of a deep lake.

  “Would you be my wife of your own free will?” he said, his voice soft as rabbit fur.

  I looked upon his features before answering. He had bushy eyebrows, thick wavy brown hair and a square jaw. He did not have the grace of a Cherokee man. But he had dignity and kindness in his eyes. I trusted Mother’s instinct.

  “Yes.”

  Upon returning home for the last time, I bathed in the stream and dressed for the wedding ceremony in my blue gingham dress.

  Isham Barnes arrived on his chestnut horse as our shadows began to lengthen, freshly scrubbed, his hair damp. He wore a clean shirt and the dirt had been wiped from his brown shoes.

  It was a hasty ceremony – he had no venison, I had only a small sack of corn. Mother’s eyes darted toward the trail again and again. I tried to be strong, but tears fell from my eyes when she hugged me good-bye. I embraced my little sisters and brother, fearing I would never see them again.

  That is when we heard thundering hooves in the distance. Mother squeezed my new husband’s arm.

  “Flee into the woods!” she cried. “It has begun!”

  “What has begun?” he asked when I translated her words.

  “Go now!” she commanded. “They will take Amadahy!”

  I spoke her words in English, watching as comprehension dawned in his eyes.

  Picking me up like I was a child, he ran to his horse, lifting me onto the saddle. He grabbed the reins and swung up behind me, digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. We galloped toward the trees, but a gunshot rang out and horses pounded close behind us, men’s voices shouting for us to stop. Two men overtook us, threatening to shoot.

  “I’m a white man,” Isham Barnes cried. “And this is my wife.”

  “If you’re a white man, why’d you run?” said the man wearing a brown hat.

  “I believe he’s trying to keep this here pretty squaw for hisself,” the one with hair like straw said, followed by coarse laughter.

  “You’re right, Johnny. But he can’t keep her to hisself now.” He put his hand on my arm.

  My new husband knocked it away, shuddering with anger.

  The man called Johnny waved his pistol. “Climb down before I shoot your head off.”

  “I’m trying to protect my bride,” my husband said.

  Johnny scratched his ear just before the other white soldier clubbed Isham Barnes from behind with the butt of his gun. My new husband crumpled and fell from the saddle, knocking me off as well. We both landed hard on the ground, the horse bolting toward the trees. Johnny shouted to the other man to give chase.

  I scrambled to pull my dress over my legs, then leaned over Isham Barnes, noticing blood on the back of his head. He was unconscious but breathing.

  “Get up, little Injun,” Johnny said, his voice making me wish I had poison mushrooms to feed him. “You’re coming with us.”

  He trailed behind me as I walked toward the house.

  “Ain’t never seen nobody walk funny like that,” he said. “Looks like you need to cut about five inches off that left leg to even things up.”

  Besides the two men who chased us, there were six other men on horseback, some with long muskets. The leader was tall with no hair on top of his head, his stained hat resting on the horn of his saddle.

  “You are hereby evicted from this land, which is now the property of the state of Georgia,” he crowed, reminding me of a swaggering rooster.

  They forced my aunts, my younger sisters and my brother to stand in the yard, allowing Mother to go inside to get what she could carry in a bundle. Then some of the white men went into the house, filling their saddle bags with our belongings.

  “Where’s Doyle?” the bald man asked.

  “Chasing down a horse,” Johnny replied.

  “We’re moving out, with or without him.” The leader put on his wide-brimmed hat and turned his horse. “Let’s march!”

  We moved toward the trail, the soldiers mounted on horses while my family walked like a small herd of cattle being led to slaughter. The men laughed, watching me rock from side to side. I stared straight ahead as though my ears did not hear.

  Their laughter soon faded and their leader ordered me to “get a move on.” I walked faster, but as the sun lowered in the west, pain coursed through my hips and back.

  Mother whispered that I should ask the smelly white bald man if I could ride a horse behind one of the men. She said I should also ask how far we were traveling. But I remained silent.

  Then she ordered me to ask if the children could have some water. I translated her request.

  “When we come to a stream, ya’ll can drink,” Johnny replied. He pulled his canteen from his saddle bag, drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at me as he did so. “I might consider giving them young’uns a drink if you promise me a roll in the hay when we make camp for the night.”

  My eyes sought the ground to avoid revealing the fire burning inside me.

  Our day’s journey ended along a small creek as the sun set. We quenched our thirst from the stream and Mother shared cornbread filled with beans she had made that morning. She took none herself. I refused also, letting the others take my portion. I had listened intently as we walked, hearing bits of the white men’s conversation. I told Mother what I had learned. That we would walk four days to a fort where we would join others of the Cherokee Nation to be held in what the white men called a stockade. There we would wait until our people were marched west. I did not tell her everything the white men said, fearing she might be killed trying to protect me.

  When it was time to sleep, we were each tied to a tree, our hands behind us. A half moon and the stars shone down through the branches. I pretended to sleep, waiting with dread. I did not have to wait long.

  Johnny came quietly, whispering that I should remain silent if I did not want my family to suffer. He untied me and led me into the woods until we were far enough away so the others would not hear. He pushed me to the ground and stood over me, unhitching his pants. I fought the urge to scream as he laughed quietly in the dark.

  A sudden thud made me jump. He fell forward, landing on the ground beside me. I raised my arm to protect myself, seeing the shadow of another man where Johnny had stood a moment before.

  “Don’t be afraid. It’s me, your husband.”

  Isham Barnes moved swiftly, tying Johnny’s hands behind his back and binding his feet. He tied a bandanna over his mouth to keep him from calling out.

  Without a word, he helped me to stand, then hoisted me on his back and carried me silently through the trees. When we reached his horse, he lifted me onto the saddle, climbing up behind me. We moved slowly through the woods until we reached a small trail, then he urged his mount to a gallop. We rode all night, stopping three times to rest the horse. When we paused at a small stream, we spoke in hushed tones.

  “Did they hurt you?” he whispered beside me as we cupped our hands to drink.

  “No.” I did not wish to speak further about the evil white men. “And your head?”

  “I’m all right. Found my horse in the woods.”

  “A soldier went to search but did not come back.”

  “Those men ain’t soldiers. They’re farmers and ne’er-do-wells called by the government to serve as militiamen to round up the Cherokee in these parts. The one who knocked me out waited for his family and they done moved into your mama’s house.”

  We remounted and continued on our way.

  “You were brave to come for me,” I said.

  “You’re my wife,” he said softly in my ear, his arms wrapped around me.

  We listened for riders behind us, but none followed. We reached his homestead as the sun rose in the east, a ghostly mist rising from the river as though we were in a sacred place.

&
nbsp; I was shy and so was he. We were still dressed in our wedding clothes but now they were soiled and torn, our bodies stinking of many hours on the road.

  We ate dried fish, then bathed in the river – first me, then him. After I cleaned the back of his head, he led me inside the house. Mother gave me guidance before the ceremony, but uncertainty and fatigue weighed on me as he folded the quilt down on the big bed in the corner.

  He cleared his throat before speaking, keeping his voice low.

  “You sleep on the bed. I’ll sleep on a blanket on the floor.”

  Confusion must have shown on my face.

  “We’re both dog-tired,” he said. “And we ain’t really got acquainted yet.”

  And so it was for three nights, me on the bed, Isham Barnes on the floor.

  He was not what I expected a husband to be. He worked alongside me in the field doing woman’s work. He said where he came from it was man’s work. He also helped hoe the garden, which was always a Cherokee woman’s chore. He fed the chickens every morning and gathered the eggs. He picked a basket of figs for me to cook from the fig bushes around the old women’s hut. He did not know my grandmother planted them long ago and tended them, using her potions, herbs and totems before this land was taken from us.

  When he snuffed the candle on the fourth night, he did not lie on the floor. He crawled into bed beside me after bathing in the river by starlight. In the darkness he spoke his heart to me.

  “I know you didn’t wanna marry me,” he said. “But when you and your mama showed up and she offered you to be my wife, I hid my jubilation so I wouldn’t scare you. Because I wanted you real bad. I’ll be a good husband, Forest Water.”

  When he put his mouth on mine, I could feel his hunger. But his hands were gentle on my body and he moved like a spring rain, slowly watering the soil so corn will grow and flowers will bloom. He whispered my name like a prayer. And I was thankful for Mother’s wisdom.

  It was during the Green Corn Moon that news arrived with Old Noon Day as he fled north to the Mountains of Blue Smoke. He said my family was locked inside a large pen at Fort Scudder with hundreds of men, women and children of the Cherokee Nation. He said many among the Principal People were dying of sickness and bad water.

  In the autumn, a white trapper stopped to water his horse and feed his stomach at our table, telling us that many wagons had departed from the fort. But he said few people rode in the wagons, most of them forced to walk.

  Isham held me close that night as we lay together, not for pleasure, but for comfort. He kissed my forehead and caressed my hair, loose on my shoulders, as I imagined my family walking many weeks to settle in a strange place far from our home.

  Upon learning more about Cherokee ways, he repaired the women’s hut. He also dug a hole in the floor and hid a metal box his grandfather brought home from the white man’s War for Independence for keeping special belongings. Once it was buried and covered with a blanket, he gave me a diary he traded for in town and two bottles of ink.

  “You can write about your people and your life,” he said. “Many years from now our grandchildren can read your words.”

  His gift gave me great pleasure.

  When frost painted the leaves with silver, he said he must hunt for game farther from our land. I did not speak my thoughts that we could survive the winter trapping small game nearby and using Cherokee fish weirs. I saw that he needed to prove his manhood to me now that he knew farming was done by women among my people. But leaving me alone was a burden on his mind so he traded with a neighbor to send his slave, Ginny, to help me.

  On the morning of his leaving, he mounted his horse as I stood wrapped in my shawl trying to be strong. He looked at me and suddenly dismounted, setting his hands on my shoulders.

  “I love you, Forest Watr,” he whispered, and kissed my mouth.

  He rode into the forest, twisting in the saddle to wave at me before the trees swallowed him. I was not afraid. But the house and the land were empty without him, like a stream during the dry time.

  Ginny was taller than me, lean and graceful like a young doe, with skin the color of fresh acorns. I was thankful to have her help. She was surprised to learn I was Cherokee, saying she didn’t know Indians lived so close. She asked many questions about my life, my family, my husband. She was taken from her family when she was sold from the plantation at eight years of age. She was sixteen now, same as me.

  We shook the persimmon trees near the river and picked up the ripe fruit before the raccoons, squirrels and deer could eat them. We set most of them out to dry in the sun. Then I taught her how to make persimmon sweet bread, giving her a loaf and keeping two for my husband’s return. On the second day, we gathered hickory nuts beneath the golden branches, breaking them open with a hammer, then grinding them into meal for making bread and stew. Working together reminded me of my mother sharing chores with her sisters, as is the custom among my people.

  I slept alone in our bed for three nights with a knife under the ticking. The sun was high the following day when Isham emerged from the trees, dragging a buck behind him on two poles, three rabbits hanging from his saddle.

  When he stopped at the edge of the yard, he dismounted and walked toward me without speaking. He wrapped his arms around me, raising me from the ground, burying his face in my hair.

  Together, we skinned and butchered the deer, hanging it in the smokehouse for the night. Then we washed quickly in the icy river and hurried to the house where a blaze in the fireplace warmed us.

  Eating corn and beans with persimmon sweet bread, our eyes were drawn to each other. When we lay together on the bed, he breathed my name as we beheld each other in the flickering firelight.

  I kissed him and his body grew firm with desire.

  “I love you also, Isham Barnes,” I whispered.

  Our passion burst forth like a trout leaping from the river, its scales sparkling in the sunlight.

  Early in the Snow Moon, I vomited after rising one morning and knew I was with child. Isham smiled like a small boy when I told him he would soon be a father, gently rubbing his hand across my flat belly.

  We were fortunate companions, happy working together and lying together at night, our bodies entwined under the quilts. I had not expected such deep feelings to grow between us. But it made my heart soar to be with a man whose eyes looked upon me with strong affection, a man who treated me with respect and tenderness, a man whose calloused hands brought me such pleasure.

  My body was strong as the baby grew inside me. The movements were like those of a happy foal prancing in the grass beside its mother.

  Isham sent for Ginny when my time came. Our baby was born as the sun set late during the Nut Moon (September1839). A big baby girl. We named her Betsey Kamama Barnes. Isham chose the name Betsey in honor of his mother. I chose the Cherokee name Kamama – Butterfly. I had never seen a man love a baby like he did.

  But one day as I dug sweet potatoes in Harvest Time Month, a shadow fell on the garden in front of me, sending a chill through my body. That is when Isham’s brother arrived at our house on foot, saying his horse had been stolen. They had the same father but different mothers, and Jonah was ten years older. Both had thick brown hair, but they did not look like brothers in any other way. Jonah was like a tall, jagged rock. I did not like the way his hard eyes rested on me. And his words at our table held no warmth.

  “You’ve got a nice farm here, little brother,” he said, scratching his dirty beard, crumbs of food dropping upon his shirt. “And a nice little Injun wife.”

  I lowered my eyes to hide my distaste.

  For two nights he slept in our small barn.

  “I do not trust your brother,” I said to Isham as we lay quietly in our bed, Betsey asleep between us.

  “You got good instincts,” he said. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow, give him a little money so he’ll be on his way.”

  But the next morning, as he finished his eggs and coffee and rose to tend the fish traps,
I was seized with dread.

  “Isham!” I cried, the baby at my breast. “I am afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “That you are in danger.”

  He returned to me and kissed me lightly on the mouth, stroking the baby’s soft hair.

  “I can take care of myself,” he said. He patted me on the cheek, his eyes full of love, and walked out the door.

  I finished nursing Betsey and cleaned the pan and plates before gathering clothing in a basket. I packed the baby on her cradle board, strapped her on my back and headed to the river to do the washing. The sun peeked above the trees, breaking the morning chill.

  When I reached the riverbank, I set the basket on a large rock and placed Betsey in the sun so she could sleep. Then I stepped into the shallows to begin my work. But there was something dark floating in the water mid-stream. I shaded my eyes with my hand.

  Summoning my strength, I waded through cold, chest-deep water to the shoals where a carcass was trapped in the swirling current. It was the size of a bear. But I recognized the overalls and the thick brown hair before I turned the body over to see the sightless eyes of my dead husband.

  5

  I buried my face in my hands after reading that final sentence. Unlike Eric, who thought he was translating a journal of a woman buried long ago, I’d met Amadahy. I’d heard Jonah’s callous voice.

  Dementia or not, Nana was right. We had to help.

  Translation of the diary had to shift into high gear. I needed more pages. Fast.

  Eric answered his phone with surprise in his voice. When I told him I needed the entire translation ASAP, he hesitated before answering.

  “Even though it’s summer semester, I do have a couple of classes to teach.”

  “Of course.”

  “Plus, I have a deadline for an article I’m writing for publication.”

  “I’ll double your fee.”

  “You’d think someone’s life was at stake,” he said, amusement in his voice.