“Tskinnak is tame. She does what I say.” Tiger Claw squeezes my shoulder warning me to be silent.
“Then I leave you to your pleasure,” Dupré says. “Tomorrow we talk more.” Wind whips into the hut as he opens the door flap. The fire’s hot coals blaze and sputter. The door flap closes and they die down.
I feel my heart beat, loud in my chest. “Let me go.”
“Tskinnak.” Tiger Claw throws his other arm around my shoulders and he hugs me. The other times when he was drinking, he only touched me with his eyes, never with his hands. But Woelfin was nearby then. I must get out of here.
I throw my weight against Tiger Claw. I push as hard as I can and he stumbles backward I slip out of his arms and back away, slowly, feeling my way around the fire toward the door. Tummaa growls and presses his body against my legs.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” Tiger Claw says angrily. He lurches toward me.
Tummaa barks and bares his teeth.
“Move!” Tiger Claw kicks Tummaa out of the way. The puppy wails as he tumbles backward into an earthen pot.
“Tummaa!” I scream.
Tiger Claw kicks my puppy again and then again.
“No!” I throw myself in front of Tiger Claw. I grasp his arms and jerk him away from my little puppy.
Tiger Claw tries to shove me aside. I sink my teeth into his arm and bite down, hard. Tiger Claw bellows with rage. He grabs my hair, drags me to his bed and throws me down upon it. “I teach you to be good squaw,” he says, slapping my face.
“I hate you!” I scream.
Tiger Claw hits my face over and over again. Hot, bright pain sears my eyes, my mouth.
Suddenly, he stops. His breath is heavy, thick with the smell of rum. I feel his body lower over mine. Now it pins me to the bed. “You be good squaw,” he mumbles.
Blackness hovers over me. “No. No.” I throw my aching head from side to side.
“Good squaw.” He runs a hand across my shoulder, down my arm.
I want to die. I wish that I could die. Oh dear Lord, help me, give me strength. Desperate, I shove my hand into Tiger Claw’s chin, snapping it away from me.
Tiger Claw forces my hand backward and pins it to the bed. He grabs my other hand and holds it, too. I cannot move.
Minutes pass. Long minutes filled with shadows and Tiger Claw’s loud breathing. Tiger Claw wants to possess me as ... as a man does a woman. I sense it now. I feel helpless and ashamed.
I sink down into the bed, wishing the saplings would break beneath me. Wishing the earth below would part and I would fall into an endless inner sky where Tiger Claw could never reach me.
I begin to sink into my vast imagined darkness and a low voice calls me back. “Drunken dog,” it says. “You would take a girl against her will? Like a Yengee devil? You shame our people.”
“Nonschetto,” I whisper, my relief at being rescued turning me as limp as rags. I struggle to see her. Pain flashes through my head as I open my eyes. But ... it is not Nonschetto’s face I see before I drown in darkness. It ... is Woelfin’s.
The next thing I know is the warmth of a compress against my cheek. I slowly open my swollen eyelids. Pale light seeps through the cracks in our hut. It is morning.
“Tskinnak. Do you feel better now?” Nonschetto sits beside me on my bed, her round face filled with sweet concern. She is gently bathing my face.
“My head hurts,” I whisper.
“My heart beats in sorrow for what happened to you.”
“How ... how did you know?”
“Woelfin told me. She knows we are like sisters. She said you needed me. I have been here all night long, helping her to nurse you. We were worried that you would not awaken.”
“Woelfin nursed me?” I whisper.
“She bathed your face with wet leaves and held your hands when you cried out.”
Nonschetto must sense my disbelief She smoothes the hair away from my eyes and says, “Tskinnak. Woelfin is old and bitter, but she is a woman. She knows how you feel.”
I lift my hands and stare at them. I think of all the times Woelfin scolded and threatened me, calling me a lazy child who is good for nothing. And yet ... Woelfin held these hands. She saved me from her son.
“Tiger Claw,” I whisper, remembering his painted face, how it hovered over me. I hate him and what he tried to do.
“Tiger Claw left at dawn with the Frenchman and several other warriors. They join the Shawnee and other Delawares who raid white man’s farms. Before Tiger Claw left, Woelfin cursed him. She said maggots will breed inside his body. They will eat his flesh and he will die in agony if he ever takes a woman against her will.”
“Woelfin cursed Tiger Claw?” I ask, unable to believe it.
“Woelfin said no Indian may take a woman who is not his wife. It is a matter of honor with our people that goes beyond the ties of a mother to her son.”
A shadow moves on the bark wall a few inches from my head. Woelfin’s shadow. She tends to something cooking on the fire. Her shadow reminds me of a bird with broad dark wings. Woelfin’s wings kept me from falling into a shame that would have darkened all my days. I must thank her.
Nonschetto supports my shoulders as I struggle to sit up. Pain pounds through my head and I see stars before my vision clears. Quetit’s small body is not curled up on her bed. “Where is Quetit?” I whisper the question, but the words ring loudly in my head. I am afraid of what might have happened to her.
“I took her to my hut after I found out what had happened to you. She was so tired and sleepy from the dance, she didn’t even protest,” Nonschetto says. “She sleeps with Gokhas now. The two are curled tight together, like little bear cubs.”
My relief is fleeting, for now I see the worn straw mat beside my bed where Tummaa always sleeps. The mat is empty, like my heart. Tears fill my eyes as I think of my little friend, of how he defended me.
I do not ask Nonschetto about Tummaa, for I am afraid to hear her answer. No animal could survive what Tiger Claw did to Tummaa. I believe Tiger Claw enjoys killing everything I love.
Nonschetto helps me to my feet. Through my tears I see Woelfin, draped in a deerskin cloak. She stirs something in a kettle sitting on the fire’s hot embers. She sees me staring at her. She lifts her ladle and points to me. “Tskinnak. You must eat.” There is a hint of tenderness in her voice that belies the stem look on her face.
Nonschetto supports my arm and walks beside me to the fire. I try to drink the broth that Woelfin gives me, but the broth is hot and my throat is tight. I want to thank Woelfin for what she’s done, but she says nothing more to me and I find I cannot look at her. I feel ashamed by what Tiger Claw tried to do.
The hut appears the same, as if last night had never happened. And yet, something is different. At first I cannot pin it down. Then, slowly, I begin to see. It is just a little thing. The bearskin Woelfin always keeps upon her bed is now spread out upon the floor.
My head pounds as Nonschetto helps me walk slowly toward the bearskin and I try not to hope too hard. Something still and gray lies upon it. Tummaa.
The puppy tries to raise his head when I kneel beside him. He slowly thumps his tail in greeting. A splint, made from a piece of kindling and wrapped around with deerskin, holds a broken leg in place.
“Poor Tummaa. His leg is hurt.” Nonschetto kneels and rubs his ears.
“Who mended his leg?” I ask, basking in the soft feel of Tummaa’s tongue against my hand. Tummaa is alive.
“Woelfin,” she replies. “I watched her. She is good with animals.”
Tummaa laps at the broth I offer him and I turn to gaze at Woelfin. I know she has heard every word we’ve said, but she says nothing. Like a crone, she hovers over the kettle, stirring her soup. She has saved me from her son. She has mended my puppy’s broken leg. I should thank her. But I don’t know how, for she will not look at me. My words of thanks stick in my throat and I know now that I can never say them. Woelfin creates a space between us that is
too wide to bridge.
“Tskinnak,” Nonschetto says in a gentle voice. She is going to tell me something I do not want to hear. I can tell by her tone. “Dupré, told Clear Sky of a French trader who arrives at the river forks in two days. He brings brass kettles, fine beads and broadcloth. Clear Sky wants me to help in bartering. I must leave. Clear Sky’s furs are packed. He waits for me.”
“Do not go.”
“It will be the last time to trade before the snow flies. I will bring you back beads. You will look pretty in the necklace I will make from them.” Nonschetto places something cold and smooth in my hand. Her bone-handled knife. “This will protect you while I am gone.”
“I do not want your knife.” I try to hand it back to her, thinking that if I do not take it, Nonschetto will stay.
Nonschetto cups my hands with hers. She gently closes my fingers around the knife handle. “Come. I will help you back to bed.”
“No. I will stay with Tummaa.” I lie down beside my puppy and curl myself around his warmness. I close my aching eyes and feel Nonschetto’s hand, soft against my face.
“Please. Don’t go,” I whisper again, knowing that the words are useless. Nonschetto’s duty is to be at her husband’s side. I sink into darkness, but I do not sleep. Visions keep swirling through my mind. Now I see Dupré, his sly smile. I know that Nonschetto believes the French are good friends to the Indian. She claims that, unlike the English, the French treat the Indian with respect. But ... Dupré called me “white squaw.” He left me alone with Tiger Claw, knowing what might happen. “Do not trust the Frenchman,” I finally think to tell Nonschetto.
No answer comes. I open my eyes. The door flap is closed on this empty hut. Nonschetto is gone.
CHAPTER Fifteen
The day after Nonschetto left, the rain began. It has rained for four days now. Water puddles in one corner of our hut. I have had to move my bed closer to the fire to keep from getting wet. Smoke stings my eyes and makes my head ache. But I am better now. My eyelids are no longer swollen and I can see.
Bad things come in threes. I learned this when I was small, like Quetit. You stub a toe, cut a finger and then you wait for the third bad thing. It always happens, and only afterward can you relax, knowing that, for a little while, you’ll be hurt no more. Two bad things have already happened. Tiger Claw attacked me and he broke Tummaa’s leg. What is to be the third bad thing? Could I call it the storm which has blown the shingles off our roof?
Outside, the wind mounts, slashing the rain against our hut. Quetit and I sew by firelight while Woelfin sleeps. I hope that she does not awaken soon. The damp air makes her bones ache and she is more ill-tempered than a wounded bear.
“Tskinnak. Look.” Quetit shows me the design she has been sewing in her deerskin square. A smattering of stars covers a brown expanse of sky.
“You must make your stitches small and even. Like you did with this one.” I point to a star she has neatly stitched in red.
Quetit unthreads all but the red star design and begins anew. She is good with her hands and patient, the way I was when my mother taught me how to sew. I still can picture the words stamped on my first sampler—“God Bless This Home.” It is strange how clearly I can picture these words, while the details of my home and family fade. It saddens me to think that this is happening, but perhaps it’s better my mind works this way.
These deerskin squares are hard to work. The dyed porcupine quills we use are not like a needle and thread. I am pleased with Quetit’s progress, pleased with my own creation—a picture of the woman falling through the sky. The woman holds her arms out in the shape of a cross. Birds fly under her arms, holding her aloft. I need to sew in the shapes of clouds, the outline of a mud turtle waiting for her, then I will give the picture to Nonschetto. I hope that she will like it.
I wonder where Nonschetto is. I hope she has found shelter from the rain and that her trading has been good. I feel so empty when she is gone. Especially now.
Tummaa sleeps at our feet while we sew bright quill designs of yellow, red and blue. His leg is slowly mending. When I see him hobble, I see Tiger Claw kicking him. I hope the wilderness swallows Tiger Claw. I hope he never returns from battle. That would be a good bad thing.
I create clouds of blue, a red and yellow earth. My picture is completed. The woman falls through the sky and a large mud turtle awaits her in a sea of blue. I sleep, dreaming of Nonschetto, her smile when she sees what I have made.
Bird song awakens me at dawn. Sunlight slants through the hole in the roof which the storm has made. It shines on Quetit’s face. She opens her eyes and reaches toward the light, as if she could capture it and claim it for her own.
“Shhh,” I whisper when her eyes meet mine. “Do not awaken the old she-bear.” I glance at Woelfin who snores loudly on her bed.
Quetit giggles. She hops out of bed and together we quietly slip outside. The earth has been washed clean and the wet trees sparkle.
“Tskinnak. Look! Nonschetto’s home is broken.” Quetit points to an uprooted locust tree which leans against Nonschetto’s hut. We hurry across the village clearing, skirting the black water puddled in the bonfire circle. Up close, I see that the locust has crashed into Nonschetto’s roof and a large branch bars the door.
This is the third bad thing, I think. And it is not so bad. A tree can be moved. A hut can be repaired. Thorns scratch my hands as I try to pull the branch away. Quetit tries to help me, but the branch is too heavy for us to move. We need a hatchet to cut it into pieces.
“You would mend a roof that shelters no one while we sleep in puddles?” Woelfin says when we ask for the hatchet. “Soon our hut will be filled with water. Where then will we light our fire? Take the hatchet. Cut the tree bark and patch our roof first. Pusik! Move!”
I do not want to patch our roof. I want to mend Nonschetto’s. Woelfin knows this and she is jealous. She has always been jealous of the closeness Nonschetto and I share except ... when I was injured. I grab the hatchet and take my frustration out on trees, slicing the bark away in jagged sheets.
Soon the village comes alive as people emerge from their homes to clear away the branches that have fallen against their roofs and walls. Gokhotit sits astride his roof, two huts away from me. His strong hands work quickly, tearing off broken shingles. Gokhotit is not afraid of heights, but I am. They make me feel dizzy. I always fear that I will fall.
I stand on an upturned log so that I can reach our roof. One by one, Quetit hands me the sheets of bark and I piece them together, so that the sheets overlap, covering the hole in the roof which the wind has made. The work is slow and tedious and my arms ache with it.
By noon, the roof is finally patched to Woelfin’s satisfaction. By noon, the others have finished patching their homes, too. Now Gokhotit, along with Gray Fox, Woates’s husband, drags the locust tree away. It pleases me to see the tree removed. I hated the way its branches barred Nonschetto’s door.
Outside our hut, a tired Quetit sprawls in the sunlight with Tummaa on a bed she’s made with her deerskin draped over a pile of leaves. I carry our leftover bark to Nonschetto’s hut. Gokhotit stands outside, his hands on his hips while he stares up at the roof. “This is an evil sign,” he says, pointing to the gaping hole. “Bad spirits will enter the hut and there is no one inside to scare them away.”
“Then we must mend the roof quickly, before they can enter,” I say, finding it all too easy now to picture these bad spirits. There are three of them and they perch in the dark branches of the locust tree, flapping large and scaly wings. Their eyes burn red like Meesing’s and they look hungry. I race back across the clearing, their frightful image giving wings to my feet.
I gather the remaining sheets of bark and the village dogs start howling. They race through the black puddles in the bonfire circle, their hackles raised. Tiger Claw has returned, I think, prickles dancing up and down my spine.
But Tiger Claw does not come out of the forest. Thistle does. And Clear Sky walks
behind her. But I don’t see Nonschetto. Maybe Clear Sky took her to her village, to visit with her sister, White Cloud. She didn’t tell me she was going there.
I drop the load of bark and run to Clear Sky. “Where is Nonschetto?” I ask, suddenly afraid of the expression I see on his face.
Clear Sky stares at me, his face like a mask. He brushes past me and halloos. And as this mournful death cry echoes through the village, as the men, women and children hurry out of their huts, the third bad thing, larger and darker and more terrible than I could ever imagine, grips me in its talons and does not let me go.
Stunned, I listen as Clear Sky now tells the assembled people what happened to Nonschetto. Of how she stood at the cabin door while inside, Clear Sky bartered with the fur trader. How she held Gokhas in her arms. Suddenly, there was the sound of hoofbeats, of white man’s talk. Nonschetto said something in the white man’s tongue. Then rifles fired.
The awful shame, the horror I felt when Tiger Claw attacked me, cannot match what I am feeling now. I taught Nonschetto how to speak like a white man, but only a little. Did my words trigger the white man’s gun? “Hello.” “Do you have bread to eat?” “I trade four furs for one blanket.” “I ... love you.”
Quetit runs over to me and, sobbing, burrows her face in my deerskin skirt. Quetit’s hair is matted, full of leaves. I pick them out, one by one; watch them flutter to the ground as Clear Sky tells how he buried Nonschetto with her feet toward the sunrise.
“The white man killed my wife, my son,” Clear Sky is shouting now. “My blood cries for revenge!”
And in the hollowness that was my heart, I imagine all the bad things in this world flapping in the wind. They come together, folding their scaly wings, and form the figure of large dark evil man. He is as bleak as death.
“Tskinnak.” Quetit pulls at my dress. She looks up at me, her face streaked with tears. “Clear Sky says Nonschetto has gone to Assowajame, the land beyond our sight. Can we go there too? Can we see Nonschetto? Tskinnak. Why did the white man shoot her?”
I Am Regina Page 10
