Dear America: Standing in the Light

by Mary Pope Osborne

  Finally, I brought out my ink and paper and copied their scores. The boys stared with wonder as I wrote down each of their Indian names, sounding them out.

  At the end of the night, they both wanted to take the score sheet with them. They drew sticks, and Little Bear got to keep the paper.

  Their curiosity and interest has led me to wonder if perhaps I should teach English to the camp children.

  I will ask Snow Hunter when he returns from his hunting trip. I worry about Snow Hunter roaming the wilderness. What if backwoodsmen should mistake him for an enemy?

  Snow Hunter still gone.

  Yesterday afternoon, Little Cloud and White Owl built a large fire. Then White Owl brought out a wooden doll about a foot long. She put red paint on its face and attached it to a stick. Then she stuck the stick into the earth.

  Soon guests began to arrive. Each spoke to the doll. They called her nuham, which Thomas tells me means “grandmother.”

  As soon as it grew dark, dancing and singing began. The doll was passed from hand to hand as the young men and women danced.

  Thomas and I watched them from the entrance of the wigwam, the hut. Little Cloud beckoned us to join them. Before I could stop him, Thomas threw himself into the dance. And suddenly, Papa, before I knew it, I was dancing, too! I had not intended to, but a joy came over me that prompted me to join them. I moved my feet and head and arms to the rhythm of the drums. Papa, I confess this with great guilt — I love to dance. I felt I was one with the music, the night, and my fellow dancers. Can thee ever forgive me?

  We danced for a long time. After everyone took their leave, and Thomas and I lay down on our bed, my heart pounded. I could still hear the drumming and singing in my head.

  When I woke this early morning, everything was quiet. The doll was gone, and the ground was swept clean. All trace of our sin had vanished.

  Very hot day. Snow Hunter is not back. The men returned without him. I asked where he was. But I could not interpret their answer. Neither could Thomas.

  What a terrible thing not to understand. I must learn more Lenape words.

  Even hotter today. I made fishnets with Little Cloud and White Owl. We wove the nets with thread from wild hemp. As we worked, I longed to learn of Snow Hunter’s whereabouts. Finally I decided to use my copybook to ask my question.

  First I drew a man’s face with an eagle painted on his cheek. Then I cupped my hands over my eyes and turned my head from side to side, as if to say, Where is he?

  White Owl and Little Cloud seemed confused, until Thomas piped up in plain English, “Where is Snow Hunter?”

  Little Cloud laughed and gestured toward the trees. She pretended to shoot an arrow.

  I laughed then, too. It seems they have been learning English from us faster than I have been learning Lenape from them. And I laughed because Snow Hunter is safe; he is still hunting in the forest.

  “Wishi. Wulelemil,” I said to her.

  Good. Wonderful.

  Many shad were swimming up the river today. A group of boys went fishing. Two set out in a canoe with one end of a long net. Others, including Thomas, stood on the shore, holding the other end of the net.

  Those in the canoe pulled the net through the water, while those on shore pulled it also. By morning’s end, they had captured at least one hundred fish.

  In the afternoon, Little Cloud and I cleaned and prepared our share of the catch. We pegged each fish to a board, then cooked them in front of the fire.

  Today we dried and smoked a great number of fish, so they could be stored and eaten later.

  Snow Hunter returned in the late afternoon!

  Thomas ran joyfully to meet him. But when the two approached me, I pretended to be very calm, only saying, “Hah.”

  “Hah,” he said in return.

  I was roasting meat on a spit. I asked if he was hungry.

  He nodded and sat.

  White Owl and Little Cloud joined us, and we all ate in happy silence, “a living silence,” as Quaker Friends say.

  I am grateful for Snow Hunter’s safe return.

  Tonight Snow Hunter invited Thomas and me to come with him to fish by torchlight.

  Embraced by the warm, dark air, we sat in his muxul, or canoe, as he speared several large fish. Then Thomas and I held a small net as Snow Hunter silently paddled us up the river. We caught quite a number this way.

  We worked in whispers as our light glowed upon the calm waters. A warm, lovely night, Papa. Indeed, I felt as if heaven had gathered us three and caught us in its net.

  Today Thomas and Snow Hunter made fishhooks of dried bird claws and harpoons from deer antlers. While they worked, White Owl, Little Cloud, and I tanned deerskins.

  White Owl removed all the hair from the hides with a stone scraper. Little Cloud and I mashed the brains and rubbed them into the skin. Tomorrow the brains will be scraped off and the skins will be washed. Then we will rub each skin with a bone to make it soft.

  Papa, these are some of the things we make from nature:

  brooms from bird feathers water dippers from gourds buckets from bark

  bowls from wood of the sassafras tree

  cups from seashells

  pots from clay

  chisels from beaver teeth

  rattles from turtle shells

  red paint from the juice of wild crabapple

  black paint from sumac mixed with black walnut bark

  We are attached to the earth by a thousand threads.

  Last night I dreamt that white bears came into the camp and started smashing our heads with clubs till our brains ran out. I woke up, screaming. White Owl rubbed my back with grease, then purified our hut with red-cedar smoke to chase away the bad spirits.

  Am I now dreaming the dreams of the Lenape?

  Today Snow Hunter, Thomas, and I went into the forest. Snow Hunter studied the trees, and he stopped before a tall hickory. He made an offering of tobacco to thank the spirit of the tree. Then he cut down a small branch.

  When we returned to camp, he used his flint knife to remove the bark from the branch. Then he split the branch from end to end and hollowed out both halves. Finally he made a row of little holes in the wood.

  Several times we asked him what he was doing, but he only smiled. When he joined the two halves together with pine pitch and wrapped them with deerskin, we saw that he had made a musical instrument that looked like a flute. He told us it is called an ahpikon.

  When Thomas begged Snow Hunter to play for us, he nodded and said simply, “Someday.”

  Then he put the ahpikon in his belt and left.

  All the while that we were together, I wanted to tell Snow Hunter my dream — of the white bears beating us — for I know he sees great meaning in such dreams. But something would not allow me to tell him. The horror of it all was too great. I would rather it be forgotten and never spoken of again.

  Papa, remember the question in the Gospel of Luke: “Who is my neighbor?”

  I think of that question as I sit near Thomas, who sleeps on our bed of deerskins. I hear an owl call in the night air, and Little One coo from his cradleboard.

  I think of thee and Mother, Eliza, and Baby Will, and I think how strange to be here. What for, Papa? To learn about those who are different from us? To learn something that few English people know — a quick and lively knowledge of those some would call “savage"?

  Papa, the Lenape are my neighbors. Sitting here peacefully, I feel a current of God’s love running through this life, though He is known here by a different name.

  Snow Hunter tells me the Lenape believe that corn was first dropped out of the sky from the mouth of a crow. Today we all worked together, harvesting our crop. Then we roasted the ears in their husks until their kernels popped off. Tomorrow we begin pounding the kernels night and day into cornmeal.

  Tonight I sewed skirts with Little Cloud and White Owl. As we used awls to bore holes through deerskin, I heard music from outside. Flute music.

  L
ittle Cloud and White Owl glanced at each other, then smiled at me. When Thomas started to go outside, White Owl gently grabbed him by the arm.

  She looked at me and motioned for me to go outside instead.

  I felt suddenly nervous. I wrapped a deerskin shawl around my shoulders, then stepped out into the dark.

  Snow Hunter sat in the moonlight, playing his ahpikon. I sat near him and listened to his haunting, lovely song. Was he playing for me?

  When he finished, I asked, “Who taught thee to play?”

  “The eagle,” he answered.

  When I asked if that was the name of one who lived in our camp, he smiled and shook his head. Then he explained. Three years ago when he was fourteen, he went alone into the deep forest in search of a vision. He neither ate nor drank for many days. He only prayed that a good spirit would be his guardian.

  On the seventh day, when he was near collapse, he saw an eagle in the sky. The eagle talked to him and told him that he would always look after him, that he would turn him into a great hunter and teach him to play music.

  Snow Hunter returned home after his eagle vision. From that day on, he could hunt better than anyone else, and he could play the ahpikon.

  He said that the eagle was his guardian. This is why he tattooed one on his cheek.

  I reminded him that his eagle had visited my dream, that he had covered Thomas with his great wings.

  He smiled and told me that was the reason he had taken me to see Thomas, for he knew my dream was sending him a message.

  I told him that I believe all things in nature bear the mark of their Maker. The eagle, the owl, and the wind.

  We sat silently for a long moment, understanding that we are not so different really. We remained in this living silence until I began to shiver. Then he told me he must leave, and he lightly brushed my hair with his hand.

  “Wanishi,” I said. I am thankful.

  All day Snow Hunter’s song was with me.

  In the morning Little Cloud strapped Little One to her back, and went berry hunting with Thomas and me. We filled our baskets with strawberries. Suddenly the sky grew black. Then thunder shook the ground and rain began to fall.

  Little Cloud led us to a rock shelter where we waited while the rain poured down and lightning lit up the forest.

  The sound of the thunder was the loudest I have ever heard. Little One did not cry at all, but I confess Thomas and I were much alarmed. Little Cloud tried to soothe our terror by stroking our hair and smiling at us and pretending not to be frightened.

  When the storm finally passed, I was so grateful to her, I held her arm all the way back to our camp.

  Snow Hunter came to dinner. When Thomas told him about our adventure, he said that the thunder was made by Thunder Beings. “They are huge birds with human heads who shoot lightning bolts from their bows,” he said.

  “Really?” Thomas’s eyes grew wide. “Is thee telling the truth?”

  “Yes,” said Snow Hunter. “The sharp, crackling thunder is made by young Thunder Beings. Low, rumbling sounds by old ones.”

  Thomas looked at me, as if asking me to verify this information. I only shrugged and smiled.

  I know that Quakers do not believe in Thunder Beings, but in that moment, listening to Snow Hunter, I could not banish them thoroughly from my mind.

  Hearty dinner tonight. Beans boiled with bear grease and fresh turkey meat broiled on coals. After we ate, Snow Hunter, White Owl, Little Cloud, and I passed the time in silence. Now and again, one murmured about the deeds of the day, but mostly, we listened to the sounds of twilight, the crickets, and cooing night birds.

  Our days and nights are getting cooler. Late summer weather. Today I helped Little Cloud and White Owl gather acorns. Later we roasted them to remove their bad taste, then pounded them and added them to our cornbread.

  While we worked outside, Snow Hunter stopped by to bid us hello. After he left, White Owl smiled at me and made a sign to Little Cloud to indicate that Snow Hunter and I were a pair. Then Little Cloud rocked her arms as if she were rocking a baby.

  Do they think that Snow Hunter and I will be married? I was so astonished, I quickly finished off my work and went inside to lie down.

  I am only thirteen! But Lenape girls sometimes marry as young as thirteen or fourteen, I have learned. What am I to think?

  I am in a state of confusion over Little Cloud’s gestures about Snow Hunter and myself.

  This morning, I followed discreetly when Thomas went into the forest to help Snow Hunter and the other men make a canoe. Soon they are going on an expedition downriver to sell their animal skins to Canadian traders who live in Bethlehem.

  They cut down a huge tulip poplar, then burned and scraped the trunk, hollowing it out to hold eight men.

  While they worked, I watched Snow Hunter from afar. He seemed totally engaged in his task, without entertaining any thought of me.

  He looked very handsome and strong in the sunlight.

  It is strange. But now I do not feel as though I am writing for Papa. I feel as though I am writing for myself.

  What should happen if I were to marry Snow Hunter? Though Snow Hunter was born an Englishman, he is definitely Indian now. If he were my husband, would Papa’s Quaker love still embrace him?

  If I were his wife, I fear I could never return home, for he does not seem to have the slightest inclination to live among the English again. I would have to live here always. And what of Thomas? I think if thee asked him today, Thomas would say he would like to grow up to be just like Snow Hunter.

  If Papa, Mother, Eliza, and Baby Will were not on this earth, I would welcome such a fate among these people. Indeed, sometimes I feel that White Owl, Little Cloud, and Little One are my new family.

  But I cannot stand to think that Thomas and I might be forever exiled from our loved ones back home. Help me, God.

  Snow Hunter came around tonight to say good-bye, for he and his party embark tomorrow morning on their journey.

  He asked to speak with me alone, so I accompanied him into the moonlight. He stood very close to me and touched my hair. He whispered, “Snow Bird captures the Snow Hunter.”

  My heart nearly stopped. He planted a soft kiss upon my forehead, then held me to him, and I could feel both our hearts beating, and I wanted to be his wife. He gently let me go. Then he whispered, “Wanishi,” and he left me alone in the dark.

  I love him.

  The whole village saw the men off today. Eight of them, including Snow Hunter, embarked in their canoe down the river to sell their skins and furs.

  Before they left, Snow Hunter spoke kind words to me.

  “I will see you in a dream,” he said. “And you will see me.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Good be to thee.”

  He silently handed me a string of white shell beads, or wampum. Then he gave Thomas his ahpikon and asked him to keep it until he returns.

  The canoe pushed off, and the men moved silently away from us, like the yellow leaves floating down the river.

  Only once did Snow Hunter glance back at me. I waved and he smiled, radiant in the early autumn sunlight.

  My heart is heavy, but they will be back in two weeks, the Great Spirit willing.

  Little Cloud and I made new fish lines today from hand-twisted bark. Then we sewed rushes together for new floor mats and repaired torn sleeves on our deerskin robes.

  All the time, I felt an emptiness without Snow Hunter in our camp. At the same time, I am content with the certain knowledge of his love for me.

  If I marry him, I will persuade him to take Thomas and me home. Perhaps we could all be together at the farm for a long visit. Papa and Mother would both like him. He speaks plainly and honestly, and he seems to have great courage and loving-kindness.

  I helped White Owl with a healing today. Her patient was an old woman, older than herself. She will not die, White Owl says, because when I placed the healing roots in water, they did not sink.

  We also boiled cor
n tassel into tea. White Owl will give it to a mother with a colicky baby. Perhaps this would be a good remedy for Baby Will. We also boiled cottonwood bark to make an ointment for sore limbs. White Owl has great knowledge of the natural world — does that not bring her close to God’s truth?

  My mind and heart constantly wander to thoughts of Snow Hunter. Sometimes I imagine I hear the song he played for me.

  Thomas and I collected wild strawberries today and gathered nuts. Little Cloud crushed the strawberries and made a balm for herself and for me, too. With hand signs, she explained that the berries would make our skin softer. I fear Quakers would not forgive me my vanity, but the truth is — if my skin is made softer by Little Cloud’s balm, I would not mind.

  Then White Owl ground the nuts. We will use their milky fluid as a flavoring.

  Snow Hunter has been gone nine days. I need wait only a few more.

  Last night I could not sleep. I realized in the dark, cold silence of night that our Society of Friends would never give Snow Hunter and me a certificate of marriage. I would be turned out in the most shameful manner. My sins would be far worse than just unruly conduct or marrying one not in our religious society or being tempted by finery and pride in appearance.

  Far worse than all this, I will have joined my heart to that of a heathen.

  Am I brave enough to follow my own still, small voice? Would Mother and Papa still love me?

  All day my mind has been tortured — one minute I grieve that I will most certainly be turned out of the Society — the next minute, I angrily fight for myself. My best defense: Would the great William Penn scorn me if he were still alive? I think he would not. I will try to find peace in this certainty.

  Our men are hourly expected. Perhaps they will return near twilight. I will be nervous when I hear they are coming, and tremble for the sight of Snow Hunter. I imagine his party will return through the forest from the river. I imagine Thomas will run to greet him — and persuade him to come to our fire at once for dinner.