I Am Regina

by Sally M. Keehn

  “We go to village,” Tiger Claw says. And when I do not immediately follow him, he grips my arm, forcing me.

  We pad silently down the path, just up the bank from the winding stream. “Everything will be all right,” I whisper to Sarah, trying to believe my words. The land is gentle and rolling, unlike the Alleghenies with their steep slopes and sudden valleys. Perhaps it is speaking true. Perhaps we will be welcomed.

  The smell of wood smoke grows stronger. We round a bend in the path and suddenly come upon a clearing tucked among the trees. Crude log huts with bark-shingled roofs are scattered throughout it. Animal bones litter the ground outside the huts and a deerskin, stretched out on a rack to dry, ripples in the wind.

  Tiger Claw raises his left hand and halts us beneath a tall maple tree that marks the forest’s edge. I search the village for orchards, neatly tended gardens. I see dry corn stalks still standing in ragged patches; charred logs jumbled in a heap within a circle of large stones. I search for a log barn and find a crudely built rectangular log house erected by the stream. This village is not what I have pictured in my dreams. This is a mistake.

  Tiger Claw raises the sapling which dangles my father’s scalp. He shouts a chilling cry. It sounds like a wounded rabbit, only louder.

  Sarah throws her arms around my neck. Her stones tumble to the ground. Tiger Claw shouts again—a wild, savage cry that chills me to the bone, for it speaks of blood—of death.

  Men, women and children pour out of the log huts. They wear torn and dirty clothes, mostly made of deerskin. Although the air is chill and damp, some children wear no clothes at all. I don’t know how they can survive the cold.

  Tiger Claw halloos his awful cry. The people halloo back at him. They stare at me with hate-filled eyes. If I were brave like Barbara, I would escape. Now.

  “I bring you one scalp! I bring you two girls, two naked frogs, to replace our brothers who have died!” Tiger Claw yells above their cries.

  The people mill around us. A small boy with a pock-marked face pinches my arm. He’s hurt me! Frightened, I pull away from him. The crowd parts. An old woman, dressed in a tattered deerskin sacque, walks slowly through the path the people make for her. I touch Sarah’s cheek, trying to comfort her while the woman’s dark, hooded eyes appraise us. A snakeskin curls around her graying hair.

  Tiger Claw speaks to her. I cannot understand all the words he says, but his tone is prideful. The old woman gives me a sharp look that speaks contempt, spits, then turns away, walking stiffly through the crowd. Now a tall, aged man with sharp, uneven teeth and wearing a necklace made of bear claws, pounds Tiger Claw on his back, as if congratulating him. He shouts to the other villagers and they disperse, talking excitedly among themselves.

  I don’t know what they plan to do to Sarah and me, but it cannot be good. I back away from Tiger Claw—one step, two—wanting to escape, find a hollow log, a cave to hide in. Tiger Claw’s hand snakes out and grabs me. His hard fingers burn into my shoulder. I am trapped.

  The Indians emerge from their huts. I shrink at the weapons they now brandish-sticks, axes, clubs. Even the children carry them. They form two lines in front of me, one line facing the other. A small boy jumps up and down, bashing his club against the ground. A dark-skinned girl shrieks, circling a sharp pointed stick through the air.

  So this is our welcome. Our journey’s end. We are going to be beaten by these people. Sarah starts to cry.

  Tiger Claw points to a painted post which stands on the far side of the clearing, between a rack of drying meat and two upturned canoes. “You must run between my people. Run to post.”

  “No,” I tell Tiger Claw, signing frantically that my legs are too weak to run. I point to Sarah who is still strapped to my back. Sarah will receive the burden of their blows.

  “My people wait.” Tiger Claw pushes me and I stumble forward into the gauntlet.

  Sarah squeals as a boy whips his branch across our faces. I lift my arm, trying to protect us both and the dark-skinned girl pokes my stomach with her sharpened stick. Ahead, a lean man raises his axe, waiting to cut us down. Sarah screams. I weave to the other side and the old woman in the deerskin sacque clubs my arm and then my shoulder. Three times she clubs me. Then the old woman grabs my arm and drags me downhill, my body bruised with pain. Behind me, people shout as I stumble down a rocky bank to the stream.

  Four young women join the old one at the edge of the water. I struggle to escape from them as they unstrap Sarah from my back. She kicks and screams and I throw myself at them, trying to pry Sarah out of their arms. The old woman pulls me around, grabs my dress and rips it off me.

  “Sarah!” I scream as two women wade into the stream, holding Sarah up between them. They lift Sarah’s thin white body up, then down into the rushing water.

  Strong firm hands pull me off the bank and into the water, too. Ice flows around my hips, my waist. I am so cold I cannot scream.

  A young, round-faced woman standing next to me signs for me to go under the water. To let the freezing water cover my face.

  She wants to drown me.

  “No!” I fight her as she tries to grab my shoulders.

  “No hurt you.” She pushes me down into the water. Dark, dark water covers me. I am going to die.

  The next thing I know, hands are pulling upward toward the light and the round-faced woman is smiling at me. She coos as if I were a child. Cold and numb, I watch her gently wash my skin with a scrap of deerskin. For a moment, I touch her hand, grateful for this unexpected gentleness.

  “No hurt you,” she repeats, squeezing my arm gently. The old woman standing on the stream bank speaks harshly to the round-faced one who washes me. Muttering angrily, the old one wades into the water. The round-faced woman backs away as the old one scrubs my skin with sand and gravel she’s scooped up from the bottom of the stream. She scrubs my skin until it burns. I believe she wants to scrub it off me. I shiver, too weak now, too cold to fight.

  Once we have been scrubbed, the women lead Sarah and me back up the rocky bank. At the upturned canoes, the round-faced woman speaks to the old one, then veers off from our group. She does not look back.

  I don’t want her to leave. Hers is the only gentleness I’ve known since I was separated from Barbara.

  The remaining women shove Sarah and me through a torn deerskin flap into a poorly made, low-ceilinged, log hut. There are no windows to let in light, only a smoke hole in the roof. Cold drafts of air seep through cracks between the logs. Desperate for warmth, I hurry to the tiny fire burning in the center of the room. The heat it throws is sparse. Four platform beds made of saplings and covered with dark skins stand along the walls. The air is dank and smokey. This is not the home I envisioned in my dreams.

  The old woman bends down and pulls out a basket from under a bed. In it are old deerskin dresses and leggings. The other women dress me in these clothes. They dress Sarah, too. The ragged clothes feel stiff and they smell of mold.

  The round-faced woman stoops into the hut. Chattering happily to the others, she hands moccasins to Sarah and to me. Gratefully, I slip my bruised and frozen feet into the moccasins. They are soft and warm.

  Now the four young women giggle among themselves. I stand stiffly, and, as if outside myself, watch as they paint my face with bear grease that has been dyed red. Sarah cowers as the old woman paints two red circles on her cheeks. She paints Sarah’s eyelids red. Sarah looks strange. Like a white girl dressed up as an Indian. Time was when I would have laughed at her. But not now.

  The expressions on the women’s faces grow solemn as they lead us outside. A bonfire burns in the center of the clearing. Everyone is gathered around it. Everyone watches silently while the women bring Sarah and me before the tall, old man who wears the bear-claw necklace. A frayed, red blanket covers his shoulders. In a deep, proud voice, he begins to speak. Something important is about to happen, for beside me, Tiger Claw translates what the old man says into the white man’s tongue. The words Tiger Claw h
as forbidden me to speak sound foreign, frightening, coming from him.

  “Chief Towigh says, ‘Today, your white blood has been washed away. Today, you have been adopted into a great family.’”

  The old man points to me. “He says you shall be called Tskinnak, ‘the blackbird,’ for your hair, black as ravens’ wings.” He looks down at Sarah who clutches my leg, looking small and frightened. “She shall be called Quetit, ‘little girl.’”

  The old man pauses, staring at us with somber eyes while he places his hands upon our shoulders.

  “Chief Towigh says, ‘Tskinnak. Quetit. From this moment on, you will be flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone.’ ”

  I feel the dark stares of everyone upon me. Can’t they see? Beneath the paint, my skin is white. The palms of my hands, my legs, my feet are white.

  Chief Towigh lifts his gnarled hands into the air. Tiger Claw and the other Indians around us begin to chant. Several beat on drums and shake rattles made from turtle shells.

  Sarah whimpers and hides her face in my skirt as the Indians begin to dance around the bonfire. I watch the firelight flicker on their faces. Some faces are painted red and black. The Indians look like devils dancing in the firelight.

  I will never be flesh of their flesh, bone of their bone. Never..

  Now the round-faced woman pulls me into the line. Sarah cries. She holds onto my dress as the woman shows me how to do the steps. She teaches me to chant, “Danna witchee natchepung. Danna witchee natchepung.” I do not know what the words mean, but I sing them anyway. Wanting to please the only one who’s shown me any kindness. I sing the words over and over, dance with Indians and I feel as if a part of me were dying.

  Sarah curls up by a brush pile and falls asleep.

  My feet ache and my legs feel like heavy logs. My throat is dry by the time the dance is finally ended. The round-faced woman squeezes my hand, then leaves me standing by the fire. Sadly, I watch her walk away into the crowding darkness.

  The old woman leads Sarah and me back to her hut. Inside, the fire is dying. Tiger Claw comes through . the door flap. Red serpents are now painted on his blackened cheeks.

  Tiger Claw calls the old woman Mother. She calls him Son. She points to Sarah and me. “You are Indians now,” she says. “You are Woelfin’s daughters.”

  I am not the old woman’s daughter. I am Regina. I will always be Regina. I live with my family on a farm near Penn’s Creek.

  Woelfin hugs her shoulders. “It is cold in here.” She points to me. “You. Tskinnak. Gather firewood.”

  When I do not move, she pushes me through the door flap.

  Outside, the night has fallen. I finger the dried paint on my face and shiver at the strange, shadowed land stretching out before me. Like granite rocks, dark bodies huddle around a smoldering fire and ... there is no moon.

  CHAPTER Eight

  Last night I had a dream. I was at home and my sister lay beside me in our bed. The dry scent of the straw that plumped our mattress mingled with the wet, fresh scent of the rain drumming against the roof. The muffled sound of Mother’s and Father’s voices came up through the worn floorboards of our loft: Father‘s, low and serious; Mother’s, pitched a little higher, in counterpoint to his. Their comforting voices, the sound of rain and Barbara’s breathing, lulled me. I snuggled beneath my quilt, feeling safe and happy.

  When I reached for Barbara, I awoke to find myself holding Sarah in a hard bed made of saplings. In disbelief, I closed my eyes, wanting to return to the comfort of my dream, but the dream escaped me. I searched the gloomy hut wanting to find something to give me hope—a brightly colored quilt, a wooden table set with pewter. The old woman, Woelfin, squatted by the fire. Rancid-smelling steam rose from the brew she was stirring in an earthen pot. Tiger Claw stood over her, sharpening his hunting knife with a piece of flint.

  I buried my face in my deerskin blanket and I wept. I felt so alone without my family, like a bare tree in a field of snow. Then Sarah touched my face. With her finger, Sarah traced my tears, her blue eyes asking the questions that she cannot speak. She burrowed her small body into mine and gratefully, I clung to her.

  Soon after we awoke, Tiger Claw left for his hunting shelter. Woelfin said with pride that he will hunt for deer and bear meat to fill our bellies. She said that he will bring back pelts to trade for guns. Tiger Claw already has a gun. I don’t know why he would need more.

  Before he departed, Tiger Claw hung Father’s scalp from a pole that supports this hut. I couldn’t help but stare at it. The firelight gleamed off the soft gray hair, turning it to silver. Tiger Claw grunted. I glanced at him, hate burning in my heart.

  Cold daylight now seeps through chinks in this log hut. I huddle by the fire and watch the flames flicker. They remind me of last night when the Indians dressed me in their clothes and painted my cheeks red. Last night I danced like an Indian. I glance upward at my father’s scalp, wondering if a scalp has eyes. If Father could see me now, he would be ashamed.

  My stomach aches. All I have had to eat this morning is a bowl of broth. I try to sew together the strips of deerskin Woelfin has given me. I am supposed to be making moccasins, but my hands are stiff and clumsy. Mother taught me how to sew, but not like this, with a needle made of bone and dried sinew for thread. I long for the crisp feel of linen, a fine needle to guide between the threads.

  Using a bone-handled knife, Woelfin scrapes flesh from a raccoon pelt. The hut reeks with the smell of the rotten meat. Mother used to hang lavender from our kitchen rafters to sweeten the air. Woelfin should use it.

  She points her knife at me. “Lazy Tskinnak. Stop poking holes in the deerskin. Go into the forest. Gather food. N’gattopui, I am hungry.”

  “Where is the food?” I ask, careful to speak in the Indian tongue. I sense that Woelfin, like Tiger Claw, would anger at the sound of white man’s words.

  Woelfin glances sideways at me. “Does the wolf ask where his prey is hiding?”

  “No ...”

  “Go!”

  Ice crystals blanket the north wall of the hut. I can hear the wind. I want to stay by the fire. Its flames burn bright like orange flowers. I can lose myself in them.

  Woelfin’s knife flashes before my face. I scurry backward and fall over Sarah who has been sleeping near the fire. I want to tell her how sorry I am, but I do not know the Indian words. I reach behind her and grab a basket from under a. bed. The sound of Sarah’s crying haunts me as I hurry out the door flap. I remember the morning, how Sarah’s finger traced my tears.

  Outside, the day is gray and chilly. A woman takes down the stretched deerskin that yesterday flapped in the wind. A dog noses the ashes of last night’s fire. This village is a sad and lonely place.

  I search the garden plots behind the huts for gleanings. There is nothing to be found but withered stalks and leaves. I run down the bank toward the stream. Perhaps I will find fish there. I am not sure how I will catch the fish. I have no net.

  Could I catch them with my hands?

  The stream is frozen. I could find a stone and crack the ice. But I don’t know how to get fish out of the hole. I’ll have to go back without anything to eat. Woelfin will be angry. She’ll beat me.

  Mother never beat me.

  I rest my head against an ash tree that has rooted in the rocky bank. I watch withered leaves flutter in the wind and think of home. There I would find hams hanging in the smokehouse. I would find dried corn and wheat stored in barrels. There would be nuts and dried fruit; cheese, sweet butter, and milk standing in the spring house. Sometimes I would dip my finger into the milk and scoop out the thick white cream. I loved the rich taste of this stolen treat. And there was always fresh baked bread to eat. My mother’s bread.

  Thinking of her bread, I remember, how after supper the glow of firelight touched my mother’s face as she sat with her mending on her lap. Sometimes she sang. I felt so safe and loved.

  If only I could hear my mother now. Her singing would reassure me, tel
l me, “everything will be all right.”

  I try to sing the hymn she often sang. My throat feels hot and tight. I can but whisper as slowly the forbidden white man’s words come to me.

  Alone, yet not alone am 1,

  Though in this solitude so drear....

  I listen to the words I sing and suddenly, as real as touch, I feel my mother’s presence here—a warmth I have not felt in many days. Fingers brush across my arm. Startled, I quickly turn.

  But it is not my mother. Only the round-faced woman who ducked me in the water, who gave me my moccasins and danced with me. The Indians call her Nonschetto, “the doe.” I’stiffen, expecting her to scold me for singing in the white man’s tongue. Strangely, she does not scold. Her warm brown eyes search mine, as if she would like to know who I am. Me. Regina.

  I look away, stare at the earthen pot she carries and Nonschetto lifts my chin. “Why do you cry?” she says, speaking the Indian words slowly and clearly so that I can understand.

  I shake my head, afraid to answer the kindness in her voice, afraid that it might turn on me. That she will become like Tiger Claw and Woelfin and hate me.

  Nonschetto clucks as if I were her chick. “Do not cry,” she whispers, wiping my tears away.

  I lift my empty basket. “Woelfin say find food.” I stumble over the Indian words.

  Nonschetto smiles. “I will show you.” She picks up a stone from the rocky bank and cracks the ice. She fills her pot with water, then takes my hand and leads me up the stream bank, past a hut and down a beaten path into the forest. I marvel at how quietly she moves. Even the leaves beneath her feet are silent.

  Nonschetto shows me how to strip the tender bark from the maple trees. “Bark makes good food,” she says.

  I nod, telling her I understand. I have never eaten maple bark. But each spring, I used to look forward to the sweet taste of the sap Father gathered from the maple trees. I chew a small piece of the bark. It is hard and bitter and I spit it out. Nonschetto laughs. “Cook bark in water, over fire. Then you eat it.”