I Am Regina

by Sally M. Keehn

  Then I think of the pit in which I’ve stored our sugar cakes and nuts. It’s all dark and empty now.

  “Even wolf cubs grow into hunters,” Nonschetto once told me.

  I glance at Quetit, so small and trusting. She has no one to provide her food, but me. Nonschetto is gone and Tiger Claw might as well be.

  “Come,” I tell Quetit with resolve, remembering how she’d made her own way to a small twig house. “Today we are going fishing. We must try to catch maschilamek, the trout, to fill your belly. You will like the flesh. Nonschetto says that it is firm and sweet.”

  “Maschilamek,” Quetit says. She picks up the basket we use for food gathering and follows me outside. The sun is breaking through the clouds and the air smells green like fresh-cut grass.

  I tie a withered bird claw to a grape vine. The knot I make looks thick and clumsy, but it should hold. I bait the claw with softened corn, then throw the line into the stream and jerk it through the water. Quetit crouches beside me, watching.

  Something tugs on the vine!

  I flick it the way I saw Gokhotit do. The bird claw flies out of the water.

  The corn is not on it. Neither is maschilamek.

  Quetit dances around me as I bait my hook again. “We have fed maschilamek the corn. Now he must feed us.” I throw the line back in, praying that this time I will catch him.

  Again maschilamek eats my corn. Again he swims away.

  If I do not catch him, I will have to go back to clubbing mice. I know where they nest in the garden straw. I do not want to peel away the straw. I do not want to see the small gray bodies scurry. My flesh crawls at the thought.

  I throw my line downstream and flick it though the water, making the corn look like a fast-moving yellow bug.

  Maschilamek strikes.

  I pull back hard and fast. My bird claw flies from the water. Maschilamek flies with it! He lands on the stream bank. I fling myself upon him. I grab his slippery body. He squirms, but I do not let him squirm away. He is big! Far bigger than the fish Gokhotit caught! And at that moment, holding the rainbowed fish within my hands, I feel a strange new sense of self-importance. No one has told me what to do or how to do it. I, Tskinnak, have done this on my own.

  “Tskinnak!” Quetit cries, jumping up and down in excitement. “You have caught a fish! A big fish!” She runs ahead of me, her moccasined feet flying down the beaten path toward our hut. She stops at the door flap.

  She knows not to run inside the hut. If she awakens Tiger Claw, he will be angry.

  Woelfin is awake. Her eyes widen when she sees what I have caught. “Maschilamek!” she says. Her hands tremble as she takes the fish from me.

  She walks stiffly to a basket and brings out a sharp-ended bone. She keeps the fish and hands the bone to me. “Cross the stream where the tree was struck by lightning. Climb the bank. You will find a clearing in the trees. Wild garlic grows there like ticks on a dog. Bring me a basketful.”

  “But the fish,” I say, my belly rumbling with hunger.

  “I will build the fire and roast the fish while you are gone. Then we will eat fresh garlic greens with it for breakfast.” For one moment, a smile crosses Woelfin’s face. It is the first time she has ever smiled at me.

  I, Tskinnak, have made Woelfin smile!

  I rush back outside. “We must gather garlic,” I tell Quetit who has been waiting for me by the door flap. I feel important. Full of what I have accomplished.

  Just as Quetit and I are about to enter the forest, a dog howls. Someone is entering the village. It is Clear Sky! And ... Nonschetto is with him! She carries Gokhas on her back. Thistle follows close behind. Four little puppies crowd her flanks, awkward on their short and stubby legs. The three bigger ones are brown, like their father who belongs to Woates. The fourth one is little. He is gray-haired like Thistle.

  I am so relieved and happy, I do not know what to say.

  Flat Nose, Woates and the other women in the village crowd around Nonschetto. She shows them a handful of blue and red beads, a large bone-handled knife. Trading has been good. I want to join them, but I feel shy. I lead Quetit to the puppies. Thistle wags her tail and licks our faces while we pet them.

  I like the little gray one best. He nuzzles my hand and tries to nurse my fingers.

  I feel a warm hand on my back. “Tskinnak. You have been well?” The skin around Nonschetto’s eyes crinkles as she smiles at me. I love her smile. It fills her face.

  “I ... am well.”

  “Tskinnak caught a fish,” Quetit says. “It was big. As big as—” she stretches out her arms full length.

  “That is a big fish. Tskinnak should be proud.”

  I cuddle the gray puppy in my arms as he happily licks my face.

  “The puppies are only eight days old,” Nonschetto says. “But see how strong they are? When they no longer need to nurse, I will give you one.”

  “Could I have this little gray one?”

  “He is not as strong as the others.”

  “But he is strong in love. See? He kisses me.”

  Nonschetto laughs. She picks up the puppy and he licks her nose. “He is sweet, this one. But he is small.”

  “You once said that even little wolf cubs grow into hunters,” I reply, thinking proudly of the fish I’ve caught.

  Suddenly, behind Nonschetto, I see Woelfin approaching us. She has the old people’s disease. It has stiffened her limbs and made her fingers curl like claws. I do not want to feel these fingers touching me. I grab my basket and I quickly stand.

  “Nonschetto!” Woelfin says. “N’mamentschi, I rejoice upon your safe return!” She looks at me. “Tskinnak. Do you wait for the earth to walk? Do you think she will rise up to feed us? Pusik! Move!” She shoos me away.

  It seems that always when I am with my friend Nonschetto, Woelfin has something for me to do.

  I try not to think of her as I run off to gather garlic. I think of Nonschetto. Of how she has safely returned and of the puppy that will soon be mine. I will keep the puppy no matter what Woelfin might say. And I will feed him the fish I catch so that he will grow strong.

  “Tskinnak!” Quetit catches up to me and grabs my hand. Together, we discover the clearing Woelfin spoke about. It is tucked among the trees. The clearing is small and green. Garlic grows everywhere and the sun is shining.

  Quetit plays with a black beetle she has found among a pile of rocks. I crawl from one clump of garlic to the next, digging it up with the sharp-ended bone. Mud cakes my hands. The air smells of rich wet earth and garlic.

  “Alone, yet not alone am I.” I sing the words to my mother’s hymn. I sing them out loud as I gather the garlic. I think of Mother, how proud she’d be if she could see the fish I caught. I think of Nonschetto and the small gray puppy. I feel happy and ... I feel content.

  A sweet high voice starts to hum the tune I sing. I look up. It is Quetit.

  Quetit is singing with me.

  CHAPTER Twelve

  Tummaa. I have named the puppy Tummaa, the wolf. Nonschetto says it is a good name for him. That the puppy will grow into it and become strong like his brothers.

  Woelfin scolded me when I first brought Tummaa to our hut, but he wriggled his way into her affection and she allowed him to stay. “When Lowanachen, the North Wind, blows and achtu, the deer, is scarce, you must fill our bellies before you fill his,” was her one admonition.

  I love to see Tummaa’s small, plump body curled on the packed earth floor beside my bed when I awaken each morning. Tummaa makes this hut feel like a home. Tiger Claw ignores him, but Woelfin seems happier with Tummaa here. She often talks to him. “Tummaa,” Woelfin will say, “when you are bigger, you will hunt for me, heh? Catch rabbits and squirrels?”

  Tummaa will answer by rolling over on his back and wiggling happily while Woelfin strokes his belly. When I see the two of them like this, I feel myself softening, almost liking Woelfin. Tummaa has created one small, but living link between us.

  Sweet Tum
maa follows Quetit and me everywhere. When we go to the clearing where we first gathered garlic, Tummaa rolls happily in the grass then watches me, head on his paws, while I teach Quetit forbidden words that she must never speak when we are near Tiger Claw and Woelfin.

  Ever since Quetit hummed the tune while I sang my mother’s song, I have felt compelled to share these white man’s words with her, for they come from God and they give courage to the small and weak.

  Already, Quetit knows the Lord’s prayer word for word. And she’s learned many of the Bible stories. I tell Quetit, “These stories form our white man’s roots. They give us strength.”

  “I am a strong girl,” Quetit will reply, flexing her arm the way she’s seen Stone Face do. Then Tummaa will climb into her lap and lick her face, making Quetit giggle.

  Now Tummaa lies in the shade of a maple tree. He snaps at flies while, nearby, I hoe the corn in our garden patch. I like the way Tummaa keeps an eye on me. He makes me feel loved.

  The corn is as high as my shoulders. When I planted it, I fed the seed with fish heads. Squash grows beneath each stalk. Its broad green leaves protect the roots from the glaring sun. At home, we did not plant our crops this way, but it makes sense to me.

  I wish these broad, green leaves could cover and protect the white man. Last night Chief Towigh lit the council fire. He announced that the French and Indians have captured the English garrison, Fort Granville. The men spoke long into the night. Tiger Claw wanted to join the other Delaware Indians fighting the English. But Chief Towigh said his warriors should wait until fall. Then, after trading furs for ammunition, they will have the powder and lead they need to kill all the Yengee devils.

  Last night as I watched the hot flames of the council fire lick the sky, I could almost feel it burning.

  The ground is hard and dry. My arms grow tired of hoeing. I wish that I were small like Quetit. She and the other children play tag along the border of the garden patches. They are supposed to be chasing crows away.

  I hear Gokhas’s high squeal. Nonschetto’s baby waddles through the deep shade of a nearby oak, his arms outstretched. Nonschetto catches him and lifts him high above her head. Gokhas giggles.

  “Tummaa!” I call. The gray puppy stretches. He trots over to me, his tail wagging. We join Nonschetto and her baby.

  “Hello. You have bread to eat?” Nonschetto signs with her hands in the Indian way as she speaks the white man’s words that I have taught her.

  I sign back, “I have no bread.”

  Nonschetto laughs. “You sign well.” She pats the ground beside her. “Come. Sit with me.” She gives me a piece of bread and offers Gokhas her breast. He frets and pushes himself away from her. Nonschetto reaches into her pouch and brings out dried venison. She chews the meat, then gives the softened bits to Gokhas. Tummaa climbs into her lap, looking for handouts. She does not disappoint him.

  Quetit screams as she runs over to us. Stone Face chases her with a stick. Quetit hides behind me.

  “Quetit stole my lucky stone! The pink one I found by the stream!” Stone Face yells, his pocked face red with anger.

  “It is my stone!” Quetit says, hiding her hands behind her back. She’s grown stronger since she’s learned the Indian words to claim her right.

  “Mine!” Stone Face says, his short, stocky legs set defiantly on the ground.

  “Give him back the stone, Quetit. I will find you another one,” I say. I understand her need to possess small things, but I also know that I must teach her not to steal. Quetit regards me as she would a mother. Sometimes this makes me feel important. Sometimes, it scares me. I am only eleven winters old.

  “Give Stone Face his rock,” Nonschetto says, “and I will tell you a story.”

  “The one about Meesing?” Quetit asks eagerly.

  “What do you know about Meesing?” Nonschetto asks, a smile playing at the comers of her mouth.

  “He’s big! And he is hairy! His face is red and black and his eyes glow in the dark.” Quetit makes a face. “And Meesing smells. Like rotten eggs.”

  “Yes, but what does Meesing do for us?” Nonschetto asks.

  “He protects all the little animals,” Quetit says. “Sometimes, if children are weak, he frightens sickness out of them. And if the children are very bad, he carries them off in a bag of snakes!”

  Nonschetto laughs. “Good! You remember what I’ve told you! And today, I will tell you a new story. One my mother taught me.”

  Quetit opens her hand at these words and Stone Face grabs his pink rock. He runs away to join the other children. Quetit lies down beside Nonschetto and rests her head upon her lap, seemingly content with the fairness of the trade—a story for a stone.

  Gokhas tries to push Quetit away. I take him in my arms. He giggles as I rub my face into his belly.

  I love the time we spend with Nonschetto beneath the oak tree. For the past several days, she has shared her stories with us here. We can listen to them with no fear of Woelfin’s scolding. In the heat of the day, Woelfin sleeps.

  “Once, long ago, there was a land of happy people who lived above the sky,” Nonschetto begins, smiling at Gokhas who settles contentedly in my arms. “There was no sickness or death in this land. The Chieftan of the Skies who ruled it was good and kind.

  “Now in this land there was no sun, for a beautiful tree with white blossoms provided light. The Chieftan of the Skies dreamt that if this tree were not plucked up by its roots, he would die. And so, he called on his four brothers and together they uprooted the tree. It fell with a crash and knocked a large hole in the ground.

  “Imagine the Chieftan’s surprise when he looked down this hole! For through it he could see a bright blue sky. He called to his wife who was with child. ‘Come and see!’

  “They knelt beside the hole, shoots from the fallen tree of light blooming all around them, and the Chieftan said to his wife, ‘You shall create a new world in the sky that lies below us, for I have dreamt this and it must be so.’ Then he pushed her down the hole.

  “The frightened woman fell through endless sky. Tiny birds flying by told her, ‘Do not be afraid.’ They gathered into a flock beneath her and bore her safely on their wings to a great blue sea. There they set her upon a mud turtle’s back.

  “The woman rested while water fowl and animals dove into the water to find bits of earth. They placed the dirt they’d found on the turtle’s back. Soon there was enough earth for the woman to walk on.

  “The mud turtle said to the woman, ‘I will stay here forever to support you and all the other generations to come.’

  “The land on the turtle’s back continued to grow. Soon, grass and trees covered it.

  “Now the woman who fell from the sky gave birth to a daughter. And when the daughter became a woman she walked into the sea and from this union, became pregnant with twin boys. The Good Twin was born the normal way. But the Bad Twin came out from under his mother’s armpit and he killed her. The grandmother buried her daughter with her feet toward the sunrise and corn grew from her body.

  “The Good Twin, Sapling, smiled on the earth. He created the sun and moon to give us light. He made plants and animals and man to hunt the deer. But the Bad Twin, Flint, scorned the Good Twin’s creation. He hid the animals in caves. He created all the frightening things, like bats and snakes and thunderstorms.” Nonschetto pauses. Her eyes have a faraway look, as if she were thinking about such a storm. “Flint created ugly, misshapen things,” she continues in a soft low voice, “like scalping knives ... and war.”

  “Flint was a bad man,” Quetit whispers, gazing up into Nonschetto’s eyes.

  “Yes, little one, he was.” Nonschetto smoothes the hair away from Quetit’s face while a sad, knowing smile crosses hers.

  “And Sapling was good, like God.”

  “I do not know this white man’s word ... ‘god,”’ Nonschetto says, flicking a fly off Quetit’s shoulder.

  “God made everything,” Quetit explains. “The earth. The sky.
The crickets. Tskinnak told me about Him. In the clearing where we gather garlic. Sometimes we sing a song to God. One Tskinnak’s mother taught her.”

  I feel uncomfortable beneath Nonschetto’s stare. I know I’m not supposed to be sharing the white man’s God with Quetit. But He means life to me.

  “I recall hearing of your god,” Nonschetto finally says. “But it was long ago. Before the war. Now you must keep his white man’s name only in your heart. Do not speak aloud of god. Not in this village.”

  “Tskinnak said that Tiger Claw would skin us,” Quetit says.

  “Anger at the white man has turned Tiger Claw bitter, like unripened fruit.”

  “Why?” Quetit asks.

  Nonschetto starts to braid Quetit’s hair. “The white man killed Tiger Claw’s father,” she says softly.

  “In the war against General Braddock?” I ask.

  “Before the war. The men were hunting. They returned to the campfire and were sharing a meal when they were attacked. The white man shot Tiger Claw’s father, Kahonhes, in the back. Then he scalped him.”

  “The white man scalped him?” I ask, thinking of how much I’ve hated Tiger Claw for the two scalps he has taken.

  “Yes. Woelfin mourned her husband’s death for many moons. She had known Kahonhes since she was a child.” Nonschetto finishes braiding Quetit’s hair. She wraps dried grass around the ends.

  So this is the briar that chokes Woelfin’s path. I feel hurt, ashamed of what my people did. The white man can be as savage as the Indian. It is a troubling thought.

  “Why did the white man kill Kahonhes?” I ask, needing a reason for the savagery.

  Nonschetto shrugs. “Perhaps he was hunting too close to a white man’s farm. It is hard to know.”

  Gokhas whimpers in my arms. I have been hugging him too tight. I kiss his round dark face and he nestles close to me. I realize with a pang how much he and Nonschetto mean to me. I would die if the white man hurt them.