I Am Regina

by Sally M. Keehn

  We slowly follow the course of the Ohio River. Quetit, nestled beside me in the wagon, holds up a loop of rawhide thread. “Tskinnak? Will you play with me?”

  I place my hands inside the loop. I finger-weave a shape out of the thread. I feel the boy’s eyes on me as Quetit slips this shape onto her hands. Her fingers fly as she weaves the outline of a cradle. I take the cradle and weave a ladder out of it. Back and forth we play the weaving game, until my fingers slip.

  Quetit lays the empty loop upon her lap. She rests her head against my shoulder. “Tskinnak,” she says. “What is going to happen to us?”

  I sigh, swallowing my impatience. Quetit has asked this question many times. I put my arm around her. “We will stay at Fort Pitt until the soldiers are disbanded.”

  “And then?”

  “Colonel Bouquet will try to find our families.”

  “Tskinnak.” Quetit’s eyes look into mine. “I don’t remember anything about my white man’s family.”

  “I know.”

  “But you remember yours. You’ve told me about your mother. You said her arms were warm.” Quetit burrows herself between my arms, as if her warmth could bring back my memories. “You said your mother told stories and sang lullabies to you. How will we know this mother when we see her?”

  “Little one. My mother may not be alive.”

  “But if she is, how will we know her? What does she look like?”

  Quetit knows the answer to this question too, for I have answered it before. All I recall of my mother is a dark mist and a wagon pulled by two strong oxen. But now, the burden of an endless journey overwhelms me.

  “I have a dream,” I tell Quetit.

  “Yes?” she says.

  “In my dream, my mother’s hair is the color of the hickory nut once its rind is peeled and her hands are like white willow leaves, pale and silky.” As I give voice to these words, they take on a reality I have never felt before. They must be true.

  Quetit raises her head and smiles at me. “Does your mother have eyes like yours or mine?”

  “Her eyes are green, like moss.”

  “Does your mother have a long nose or a short one?” Quetit giggles.

  I squeeze her gently. “Quetit. Your questions make my head ache.”

  “Tskinnak. Can we pray that this mother will find us?”

  “We can pray.” I search the sky. Somewhere above the clouds God listens to our prayers. God understands why we have to believe in dreams. He understands what I no longer want to say to myself or Quetit—

  That the one clear memory that haunts me most is a scalp that used to hang inside our hut.

  My father’s scalp.

  CHAPTER Twenty-five

  We follow the Ohio to where it meets the river the soldiers call the Allegheny. Across the Allegheny stands Fort Pitt. Like hills, its great walls rise above the water.

  The soldiers “halloo” at the fort. They load their muskets and fire them at the sky.

  From the far side of the Allegheny comes an answering “halloo.” Then a loud noise sounds, like the roar of an angry bear. Smoke fills the sky above Fort Pitt. Another roar and then another sounds.

  “Tskinnak. These big guns frighten me. Why must the soldiers make such noise?” Quetit says, covering her ears.

  “It is the white man’s way,” I say, longing for the sound of a single Indian halloo. The white man’s welcome makes my head ache.

  Now a boat moves swiftly down the river. Two soldiers pole the craft toward the wooded bank where we are waiting. A large man dressed in deerskin wades into the water. He pulls the boat to shore.

  The two soldiers talk to Colonel Bouquet. Colonel Bouquet gives his orders. We will make camp on the banks of the Allegheny. Tomorrow, many boats and rafts will come. They will take us to the fort.

  The sun sets before our fires are lit. Quetit and I eat our supper cold. It is bread, dried beef and water.

  Peg, the large dark woman the soldiers call “the mulatto,” crouches near us while we eat. She patiently roasts fresh venison over a fire that she has kindled. Her husband, a tall and handsome Mingo Indian, waits for her in the shadows just beyond our camp.

  This Mingo has walked with Peg on the long journey to Fort Pitt. Each night, he has brought her fresh venison to eat. The soldiers have allowed him to bring her food. But they have warned the Mingo not to follow Peg when she is taken to her home in the land they call Virginia. The Mingo will be in danger there. Peg’s family will shoot him.

  “I would live in her sight or die in her presence,” I heard the Mingo reply, “for what pleasure shall the Mingo have if Peg is gone? Who will cook his venison? Who will thank him for soft fur?”

  The venison is cooked. Peg carries the wooden spit that holds the hot and dripping meat over to her husband. I hear the soft murmur of their talk as they eat together. Quetit and I both hope the Mingo stays with Peg. They fit together like a well-made bow and arrow.

  Clouds cover the moon. Soldiers crouch by fires and clean their muskets. They polish their long knives until they shine. Quetit and I bed down beneath the trees. We share one blanket, and we pray.

  Early in the morning, the soldiers come with boats and rafts, and we cross the swiftly flowing river. The cold spray of water stings my cheeks.

  We climb a steep and muddy bank and wait for the others who have yet to cross. Quetit’s skin is the color of ashes. I rub her arms to warm her.

  Once everyone is safe on shore, the soldiers line us up. They flank us on all sides. They march beside us down the path that leads around the fort.

  A large ditch that is filled with water stops our march. Like the great walls that rise like hills, this ditch surrounds Fort Pitt. A soldier shouts and a gate is lowered to form a bridge.

  I hold Quetit’s hand. Soldiers march on either side as we cross the bridge and walk the long dark passage which leads through the walls and into the fort. We enter a wide, flat plain surrounded by stone walls. Bands of soldiers march upon the plain. They carry sticks holding brightly colored cloths. They beat on drums and blow on pipes that make a wailing sound.

  I bow my head and watch my feet. I place one foot before the other. Mud cakes my moccasins. All around me I hear the soldiers march, their voices raised in triumph.

  Drumbeats mark our days. Drumbeats and the sounds of marching. But soon the beat of drums will cease and the soldiers will disband.

  One band of soldiers has already left Fort Pitt. They march to Virginia. They take some captives with them. Peg is gone. I hope the Mingo follows her. I heard that Colonel Bouquet talked to him. That he gave the Mingo a handsome present to make him stay behind. Mary was the one who told me. She is a thin woman with a long and hungry face. “The Mingo is a heathen,” Mary said. “Peg is better off without him.”

  Quetit and I think that Mary is a silly goose. No one is better suited to Peg than the Mingo. I pray they are together now.

  I sit on my narrow bed in the long gray house the soldiers call the barracks. Quetit squats on the floor in front of me while I comb lice from her hair. I want to make Quetit pretty for when she goes to Carlisle. The soldiers are to take us there. We leave tomorrow.

  They will take more than one hundred of us to this white man’s town. It is a ten days’ march from here. Colonel Bouquet has already sent messengers ahead. They post signs all through the white man’s land. The signs say that those who lost friends and family in the war are to come to Carlisle and that we will meet them there.

  I will be glad to leave Fort Pitt. The soldiers have crammed us into these dark barracks like minnows in a net. We have nothing to do here and so we talk. At times our talk is friendly. At times our talk grows loud and angry.

  Today a soldier named Matthew brought us leggings.

  There were not enough for each of us to have a pair and so we fought over them.

  Sour Plums, a large fat woman who lived with the Seneca, brought out colored stones from her deerskin pouch. “We will throw dice for the legg
ings,” she said, separating the women into groups.

  I wear my leggings now. They are unlike any I have ever worn. They are thick and rough. They itch like straw. But they cover the scars that mark my legs and feet and they are new.

  The soldier Matthew said the leggings are called “stockings.” I will wear my “stockings” when I go to Carlisle.

  Sour Plums is snoring. She sleeps by herself in a bed that is next to the one I share with Quetit. Sour Plums wears three necklaces. They are made of brightly colored beads.

  I wish that I could have a necklace, too.

  Through the barrack’s door, I see the flat ground where the soldiers march. Snow now falls upon the ground. The flakes are like white flowers.

  If I could, I would bead the flakes. I would make a necklace out of them.

  In my mind, I wear the necklace now and I am in Carlisle. I walk toward a woman. Her hair is the color of the hickory nut. Her skin is pale. She holds out her arms to me.

  In my new stockings and my necklace, I am as beautiful as snow.

  CHAPTER Twenty-six

  It is dusk. A light snow falls and three men dressed in hunting frocks greet us with their lanterns as we enter Carlisle. Colonel Bouquet talks to these men and I stare at the log buildings, the large fort that forms one side of the center square. I do not remember this white man’s town. I don’t think I’ve ever been here.

  Now Colonel Bouquet speaks to us all. He says the soldiers will divide us up in groups. Some of us will be sheltered in the fort. Others will share the white man’s homes. In the morning, we will meet together in this square. Our families come tomorrow.

  I grip Quetit’s hand as one of the men in the hunting frocks leads us down a snow-covered path. His hands are large and gentle as he ushers us into a home that smells of baking bread. The white man’s wife greets us at the door. She is short and plump. Three small children hide behind her skirts.

  “Tskinnak. Look! They have a dog like Tummaa!” Quetit points to a big gray dog who now bounds through the open door. He shakes himself from nose to tail, spraying all of us with snow. I offer him my outstretched hands.

  The white man’s wife touches me. She points to the dog who offers me his paw. “Matchlock,” she says.

  “Matchlock.” I repeat the dog’s name as I accept his welcome.

  The woman points to herself. “Anna.”

  “Anna,” Quetit says, smiling shyly at the woman.

  The children giggle as their mother names them all for us: Hans, Gerta and Peter. The father she calls Jacob.

  The children have trouble saying my name and Quetit’s. But they soon come out from behind their mother’s skirts to play the weaving game with us. I am surprised that they know how.

  We sit down to a supper of bread, cheese, milk and dried apples. Jacob bows his head before we eat. I know what he is doing.

  Jacob is giving thanks.

  While we are eating, I notice a large wooden box attached to the cabin wall—just above a large chest with a blanket folded on it. I ... remember a box like this. My family had one. Something precious was stored inside it.

  The box draws me like a bee to pollen. I sign to Anna, “May I open it?”

  Anna smiles and nods her head.

  I take a heavy book out of the box and place it on the table. Everyone is watching me.

  “What is it?” Quetit asks as I turn the fragile pages.

  “It ... it is the book of God,” I say.

  Anna asks me a question. I can tell by her tone, the look in her eyes. I sign to her, “I do not understand.”

  Anna points to the book.

  My eyes become riveted on the words printed on the open page. For these words speak to me:The Lord sets the prisoners free;

  the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.

  The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down. ...

  I close the book. Afraid to look at it.

  “Tskinnak. What is wrong? Your face is pale,” Quetit says.

  “Quetit. This must be a dream. I cannot understand the white man’s tongue. And yet ... I can read the words printed in this book as if they were my own.”

  “That is because they are not the white man’s words. They are the words of God.” Quetit’s voice echoes the awe I feel. The man of God we waited for never came. But the word of God ... it lives. It breathes within the pages of this book. In me.

  “Tskinnak,” Quetit says. “Read the words aloud.”

  And so I open the book once more to a page that has been well worn with use. “The Lord is my ...” I cannot read the next word.

  “Shepherd,” Anna says without even looking at the page. She is smiling.

  “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” I continue to read the words that follow, and suddenly I feel as if I’ve come full circle, back to my beginnings, for this is the psalm my father often read to me. I remember now and remembering, I read:Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

  All the days of my life;

  And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

  I can read no more, for now I think of Nonschetto’s goodness, Woelfin’s sense of pride and ... compassion. I think of a clearing where I prayed to God and kept his words within my heart like stitches quilled in deerskin. And I remember a tree stump growing new branches by a stream. I hug the book to my chest, feeling Jacob’s eyes upon me, as he holds little Gerta in his arms.

  At night, Quetit and I gaze out the window in the sleeping loft we share. The snow has ended and the sky is clear. The sky seems endless, the stars so bright.

  “Tskinnak. Remember the story of the woman falling through the sky?” Quetit says, resting her head against my shoulder.

  “I remember.”

  “She fell through a night like this toward a land she had never seen. Was she afraid?”

  “Perhaps. But birds held her aloft. They softened her fall.”

  Starlight now touches Quetit’s face, setting it aglow. She sighs. “I believe the word of God is like a bird.”

  Morning comes, bringing the sound of wagon wheels, of soldiers’ knocking on the cabin door. It is time to leave this kind shelter.

  Anna hugs me and I cling to her. Little Gerta cries. Outside, the sky is once more overcast with clouds. The soldiers lead us to the village square. Now they line us up with all the other captives.

  I see mountains in the distance, capped by snow and clouds and I think of Woelfin and Tummaa, lost somewhere beyond them. People are crying. Crowds of people push past the soldiers who are there to hold them back. I do not recognize any of the faces that I can see, but I know the anguish and the hope reflected in each one of them.

  A thin, dark woman, bent like a reed in wind, rushes past. She speaks with a soldier. Her hands flutter as she points to one captive child, then to another. The soldier sadly shakes his head. The woman begins to cry. A tall man, scarred by smallpox, stares at Quetit, then at me.

  “Do you know him?” Quetit whispers.

  “No,” I answer, disturbed by the pock marks on his face. They remind me of Tiger Claw, of Clear Sky and Gokhotit. They all are gone.

  A woman with hair the color of snow touches my arm. I feel the anguish in her voice as she now questions me. I find I cannot look at her. Nothing I could do or say would be of any comfort. I wish I had the book of God right now. I wish that I could hold it, feel its reassurance. The Lord opens the eyes of the blind. He sets the prisoners free.

  “Tskinnak!” Quetit points out a woman who hurries through the crowds. She wears a long, gray dress and her face is all sharp angles. It is her hair that fixes me.

  Her hair is the color of the hickory nut.

  I grab Quetit’s hand and pull her through the milling people, keeping my eyes on the woman. Wanting to feel her eyes on mine.

  Like the snowflakes that slowly drift down from the sky, this woman moves toward me.

  Mother?

  The woman looks beyond me. She cries out a white man’s name as she runs toward a
small, red-haired boy dressed in ragged deerskin. And in that instant, I know a dream has died.

  “Tskinnak. Do not cry.” Quetit wraps her arms around me and we watch the woman. Now she boards her wagon. She holds her little boy as if she will never let him go.

  The waiting minutes feel like hours. The crowds get thinner now. Quetit is crying and I feel as if my heart will break. The white man does not adopt his captives. Not like the Indian. Where will we go? Will Jacob and Anna offer us their shelter? For how long?

  “Tskinnak.” Colonel Bouquet is calling my name. The woman with the hair like snow stands beside him, looking small, like a wren covered with soft flakes of snow.

  “This woman thinks she knows you,” he says as Quetit and I approach.

  The woman brushes the hair from my face. I force myself to look at her, recognize the pain, the loss that must burn inside her as it bums in me.

  “Many winters ago, Indians took her daughter prisoner,” Colonel Bouquet says. “She resembled you. But the woman’s memory is of a child, not of a grown girl, tall and dark.”

  The woman’s eyes search mine. If I could part the mists that shroud my memory and see her standing in my door flap, my heart would sing. This woman’s face is kind.

  “I do not know her,” I tell the Colonel, wishing that I did.

  “Do you remember anything about your mother? Anything at all?” he says.

  “No ... just that my mother sang to me,” I say. “And she told me stories from the great book in which God speaks to man.”

  Colonel Bouquet turns to the woman. Does he tell her what I say? The woman is crying. A young man dressed in deerskin hurries over to comfort her.

  Beside me, Quetit shivers. I lift her face so that her eyes meet mine. “Little one. Remember last night, what you said about the word of God?”

  “I remember.”

  “God’s wings will give us shelter and His wings are strong. They will shelter this woman, too.” I feel the comfort of these words even as I say them.