With a flint Cynthia Ann started a fire, so small that the smoke was unlikely to be noticed. From inside her shirt she drew something—a man's pipe!—and filled it with what I took to be tobacco, or perhaps a kind of herb, which she lit with a piece of kindling from the fire. Where had she gotten the pipe? The tobacco? What was she doing?
Having neglected to bring my warm shawl, I shivered with cold in my hiding place, my teeth chattering, but was too fascinated to leave. Cynthia Ann went on with her ritual, puffing on the pipe and blowing smoke this way and that. Then the two began singing softly, a sorrowful tune that tugged at my heart.
When it seemed they had finished, I slipped away quickly, returning to the cabin by a roundabout way. I had much to ponder. All of us believed that Cynthia Ann had truly found her way back to our ways and was bringing up the little Indian Prairie Flower to behave like a white child, but she is, in fact, doing the opposite. How long has this been going on? I ask myself if I should tell Uncle Silas about the scene I have witnessed. And what good would it do? Perhaps he will discover it for himself. And I can only imagine the ruckus it will cause when Aunt Mary finds out!
Chapter Twenty-four
All through the warm, damp days of spring, Cynthia Ann listened to them argue. Her brother Silas, a kindly, gentle man, was married to an angry, complaining wife who took him to task for everything that was not as she wished it, and that was a great deal.
"Why, oh, why," Mary would begin in a voice as sharp as a needle, "has it become my lot in life to live with this strange woman you claim is your long-lost sister and that little barbarian of hers?"
"Now, Mary," Silas would reply soothingly. "Please don't take on so. It's bound to get better, I promise you. It just takes some getting used to, some patience on both sides."
"Patience!" Mary would snort. "The good Lord has apparently left me well short of that!"
Cynthia Ann pretended not to hear their arguments. Mary sometimes yelled loudly and once hurled one of her delicate china cups—the ones she kept on the high shelf and used only for guests, the ones she would not allow Cynthia Ann to touch—against the cabin wall. When she saw the shattered blue-and-white fragments on the floor, Mary threw herself onto the bed and sobbed as though her heart were breaking. All over a china cup.
At these times Prairie Flower would stop whatever she was doing and run to hide in the privy. On the day that the china cup was smashed, the little girl fled to her hiding place and refused to come out, turning the wooden block nailed inside the door so it could not be opened from the outside.
"No!" she shouted when Cynthia Ann tried to coax her out.
"She will come out when she wants to," Cynthia Ann told the others, secretly pleased at her daughter's stubborn determination. But hours passed, and Prairie Flower stayed locked in the privy. Cynthia Ann went to talk to her again.
First she spoke in the white man's language. "Come out now," she said. "Not nice to stay in there."
"No," Prairie Flower said. "Stay here."
Then Cynthia Ann switched to the Nerm language, explaining that no one was going to hurt her. "Aunt Mary hit," Prairie Flower said. Cynthia Ann promised that she would not allow anyone to hit her, although she was not sure she could prevent it if Mary flew into one of her rages.
Prairie Flower began to cry.
"Open the door," Cynthia Ann begged. But she had only Prairie Flower's sobs as a response. Finally she turned to Silas. "We must do it," she said.
Without a word Silas brought an iron bar and pried open the door, which then had to be taken down and repaired and put back up again. Prairie Flower crept out cautiously, looked around, and ran headlong into her mother's arms. Cynthia Ann soothed her, stroking her hair, whispering to her, and carried her to the corner of the shed where she felt secure.
That night Cynthia Ann heard them arguing again.
"I can't send them away," Silas said to his furious wife, whose belly was beginning to show another child. "They're kin. And besides, Mary," he added, "the legislature has made me her guardian. The hundred dollars a year comes to us now instead of to Uncle Isaac."
"I don't give that for the money," Mary stormed, snapping her fingers. "And as for being kin, I say they're not! After what she's done with those filthy Indians, she's not even white anymore—I don't care what you say! And look at that child! If ever there was a savage, it's that girl! People like them give up their right to be called kin, Silas. I can't believe you'd allow such people around your own children, and around me in my condition!" Then the rage gave way to tears.
For several days after that outburst no one spoke, and the cabin was filled with a heavy silence, the way the prairies sometimes got before a tornado whirled across the land ripping up a path of destruction.
Then it was as before. Mary made sure they got the leavings of their meals, serving them lesser portions on the same tin plates the Negroes used. When Silas was away at the tannery supervising the boot making for the army, Mary fed them in the lean-to with the Negroes.
Through all of this, as though she heard nothing, saw nothing, understood nothing, Cynthia Ann kept her face a perfect mask and did her work. She didn't know what would happen to her, and she didn't care. Everything now was for Prairie Flower.
All the white women from the beginning had insisted that Prairie Flower must speak only the white people's language. First it was Anna and Mrs. Raymond and Mrs. Bigelow and Mrs. Brown who made her recite those words from their book. And now Mary, who dared to slap her for using the Nerm language, for calling her mother Naduah.
Cynthia Ann had promised Uncle that she would learn the white people's language and ways in return for his pledge to take her back to her People. But she had promised him nothing about Prairie Flower. Topsannah. The child seemed to be forgetting her own name! The war had come, war among white men, a much bigger war than anything the People had ever known, and that kept her from going back. She didn't blame Uncle; she saw that he was truly sorry.
But now she knew that she must get Topsannah ready to return—tomorrow or in another winter or whenever the time came. The child must not forget her language, and already there were signs that she spoke the white man's language even more readily than her own. She must learn to prepare skins so that when she returned to the People she would be able to make clothing for her husband and children and tipi covers for her family, and she must learn to recognize wild plants to feed them when there was no meat.
When Prairie Flower came with her to the shed, she talked softly to her in their language, taking care not to let the others hear. Silas's boy Samuel was always looking for her to come and play, and she knew that Prairie Flower wanted to be off with him, but Cynthia Ann insisted. Every day she would teach her a little, so that she would not forget.
Lucy often came to the shed to work on some gloves. Sometimes Lucy appeared suddenly, and Cynthia Ann recognized by the look on her face that she had overheard them murmuring together. But she knew that Lucy would say nothing, certainly not to Mary, whom she disliked—that much was plain!—and probably not to Silas. Cynthia Ann had come to trust Lucy, young as she was, more than any of the white women she had met. And she was sad to think that Lucy would be leaving soon, returning to her own home, her own mother.
"I can't stay here long," Lucy told her while she stitched, "I came so that you would not be so lonely at first." She looked around. "But I'm afraid...," she trailed off.
"Not lonely," Cynthia Ann tried to reassure her. "I have my little girl."
"I know," Lucy said. Then she took a deep breath, perhaps summoning her courage. "Your son Quanah is distinguishing himself among his people," she said. "You must have been proud to hear the farmer say that."
Cynthia Ann nodded but kept her eyes on her work. "His name means Sweet Fragrance," she said. "Quanah was my name for him. A good name."
"A good name," Lucy agreed, but her voice showed that something troubled her. "But why must he raid our settlements?" she burst out.
; "It is what he does," Cynthia Ann explained, but she knew this didn't satisfy Lucy and that nothing would. "He is Nerm."
When a man from somewhere to the north brought deerskins for a buckskin suit, Cynthia Ann managed to speak privately with him before he left.
"Do you have any tobacco?" she asked.
He looked at her oddly, a smile twitching the corner of his lips. "Picked up some bad habits from those Injuns, did you?" he asked.
"Do you have any tobacco?" she repeated as though she had not heard him.
"I'll bring some when I pick up the suit," he said. When he came back to collect his suit, he slipped the little packet of tobacco to Cynthia Ann with a broad wink.
Cynthia Ann hurried to the shed where she had hidden a pipe, one of Silas's, which she hoped he wouldn't miss. One or another of Silas's Negroes was supposed to be watching her, but she had explained to cottony-haired Jim, "No need for you to come. We're going for a walk. We will come back before sunset." The old dark-skinned man seemed relieved and nodded, turning away. Neither of them was free to leave, and both knew it.
Cynthia Ann and Prairie Flower ducked into the pine woods, which had a greenish light even in winter. Presently they came to the clearing they had prepared on earlier visits. Cynthia Ann swept off the circle, and sent Prairie Flower to gather kindling.
"Lucy," Prairie Flower whispered in the language of the People, laying down a handful of dried grass. "In the bushes, watching."
Cynthia Ann didn't turn around. "That's all right," she said. "But we must not let her know we know she's there."
She built a small fire. From inside her shirt she drew out the pipe, tamped in a pinch of tobacco, and lit it.
"First," she told Prairie Flower, "we honor Father Sun by blowing a puff of smoke to him." She did this. "Then Mother Earth," she said, puffing again. Then she blew smoke to the east, west, north, and south, naming them as she did. Prairie Flower imitated her with a wooden stick.
When they had finished by singing a lament for her People, Cynthia Ann dumped dirt on the fire and carefully spread pine needles over the circle. "No hurry," she said to Prairie Flower. "We must give Lucy time to leave."
"Not tell Aunt Mary!" Prairie Flower chirped. "Not tell Uncle Silas! Not tell nobody!"
Hand in hand they returned to the cabin. They found Lucy calmly stitching on a knapsack for one of the neighbors who was leaving to fight. When Lucy raised her eyes, Cynthia Ann read the questions in them, but she turned away.
Chapter Twenty-five
From Lucy's journal, March 19, 1862
Grandfather and Ben arrived two days ago. We leave tomorrow—they are in a rush to get back to Birdville as soon as possible. I was in the shed with Cynthia Ann and Prairie Flower when we heard the clatter in the yard and the dogs yapping and people talking. I paid no attention, assuming it was someone to see Uncle Silas on business or a neighbor to order moccasins. We both kept on with our work, but Prairie Flower scurried off to investigate. Soon she returned, leading my weary-looking grandfather by the hand.
"Here's Naduah," Prairie Flower said, beaming, pointing to her mother.
My heart sank, knowing how he felt about the use of Cynthia Ann's Indian name. Grandfather frowned. "Naduah?" he asked. "Is that what she calls you?"
Cynthia Ann jumped to her feet, aware, I'm certain, of his opposition. "Sometimes she calls me that," she admitted. "Are you well, Uncle?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine, fine. But I've come for Lucy." He turned to me. "Your mother has taken a turn for the worse, my dear," he said gently. "You are needed at home. I wrote a letter, but the mail is undependable. Your work here is finished now, is it not? Cynthia Ann and Tecks Ann are comfortably settled here, then?"
Before I could reply, Cynthia Ann interrupted. "I must return to my People," she said bluntly. "They try to be kind, but I do not belong here."
Uncle shook his head sadly. "Out of the question, I'm afraid. We're in for a long haul. It may be a long time, Cynthia Ann. We have to make the best of it."
She tried to keep from showing her deep disappointment, but, of course, I knew. My own feelings were unsettled. I have been here more than two months and am more than ready to go home, but I shall miss my cousin and certainly her precious Prairie Flower. I am not sure that Cynthia Ann cares that I am leaving, at any rate not as much as I do.
I do hate to see her here! Even with Grandfather present, Aunt Mary makes scant effort to treat Cynthia Ann with more than bare civility, saying once to Grandfather, "They are nothing but savages, you know. Hopeless savages."
And Uncle Silas says only, "Mary's a mite touchy just now. Her condition," referring to the baby on the way.
There is a ray of hope. I know that Uncle Silas and Cynthia Ann have a sister who lives here in Van Zandt County, and it puzzled me that the sister, whose name is Orlena, has never been among the many visitors here. But little Samuel, in the way of children, let the cat out of the bag. "My mum and her had a fight," he told me. "A big one! I thought Mama was going to scratch her eyes out!" he went on, his own eyes wide at the memory. It is my hope that Orlena will be more of Silas's disposition than of Mary's, and that somehow Cynthia Ann and Prairie Flower will end up with them.
This afternoon after I had packed up my things, I went back to the shed to make my farewell to Cynthia Ann. "I want you to know that I shall miss you, and Prairie Flower, too," I told her. "I know how disappointed you are that you have not been able to visit your family because of this dreadful war, even though Grandfather promised that you could. But I want to make you a promise."
Only then did she look up at me. "I am young and only a girl at that," I rushed on, "but if I can find a way to bring you to your son, I promise you that I shall do it. I promise that I shall never stop looking for a way." I crossed my heart as I spoke.
For a moment, she said nothing but looked at me with those troubled eyes. Then she reached down and with a ragged fingernail scratched something in the dirt: PROMISS. One word that she remembered from the times I had tried to teach her her letters. She had seemed to take to reading and writing, but in recent months there was always so much work to be done and never enough time for our lessons. Yet she remembered this word.
I picked up a stone and scratched under it my name. She nodded, and then, before anyone could see it, I rubbed it out with my foot.
I have given my pledge without the least idea of how I will keep it. I will go with Ben and Grandfather with a heavy heart, knowing that the one blessing in Cynthia Ann's life is her precious Prairie Flower.
Chapter Twenty-six
The woman greeted Cynthia Ann with a bright, nervous smile, walked right up, and put her strong arms around her. "Hello, Sister," she said in a cheerful voice. "And this must be our little Tecks Ann."
"Topsannah," Cynthia Ann corrected her. "Prairie Flower in your language," she added.
"What a pretty name, Prairie Flower!" She knelt down and held out her arms. Prairie Flower walked into them and accepted the embrace. "Oh, she is just too precious!" Orlena cooed. "How can you bear to let them go, Mary?"
Mary struggled, Cynthia Ann saw, not to give it all away and end up having to keep them after all if she told the truth. "They don't like it here," Mary said flatly. "And with the new baby coming, it's too much."
"Well, I'm sure they'll be happy with us, won't they, Ruff?" She turned to the man with her, a tall, broad-chested man with wild red hair and a bushy beard.
The man swept off his broad-brimmed hat and bowed to Cynthia Ann. "Ruff O'Quinn, Miss Parker," he said. "And I am pleased to make your acquaintance. As my wife has said, we will do our best to make a good home for you and your daughter."
He replaced his hat and stepped back. Cynthia Ann looked him over carefully. Without a word she went to gather up her buffalo robe. She was ready to go, had been, in fact, since the hot, rainy night when Silas finally gave in to Mary's scolding.
"I simply can't bear it, Silas," Mary had cried. "That child might as well be a purebred Ind
ian. She looks Indian, she talks Indian, she acts Indian, and her mother actually encourages her! Please, please send them away!"
"All right, Mary," Silas had said wearily. "I'll talk to Orlena and Ruff and see what they have to say." Orlena, Cynthia Ann remembered, was a sister, the baby in Mama's arms.
"Won't you stay and visit for a spell?" Silas asked now. "I believe Mary's fixed a nice dinner for us."
Cynthia Ann knew this was not true. They had been arguing about that, too, Silas insisting that his sister and brother-in-law should be offered a good meal and perhaps invited to stay the night. But Mary was in no mood for any of this. She simply wanted Cynthia Ann to leave, and the sooner the better. Maybe Anna had sent word that Cynthia Ann had cast a spell on the baby Daniel that made him sicken and die. She wanted Cynthia Ann out of any possible reach of her baby, due soon from the look of it.
But it was also clear that Orlena was not especially fond of her sister-in-law, either. Silas must have known they'd refuse, and Orlena's ruddy-faced husband had no objection to turning around and starting the journey back to a place they called Slater's Creek. She never even took off her bonnet, accepted only a tin mug of substitute coffee—Mary did not get down the fine china cups for them—and they were on their way.
Ruff O'Quinn's wagon was more comfortable than Silas's, and the well-fed mules stepped along smartly. Orlena kept turning around to make sure Cynthia Ann and Prairie Flower were all right, confiding over the rattle of the wagon wheels, "I hope you don't mind, Cynthia Ann, that we didn't stay. But I just could not wait to get away from there. My sister-in-law is a good Christian woman, I'm sure, but she and I don't see eye-to-eye on a good many things and, frankly, I spend as little time as possible around her."
Cynthia Ann nodded. "All right," she said.
"Now my brother, Silas"—she paused, laughed nervously, and began again. "That is, our brother Silas is a good man, exceptionally patient. But it just seemed you might be happier with us. Mr. O'Quinn was a widower when I married him, but his children are all grown and gone now, and the Good Lord has not seen fit to give me any children of my own." Here a shadow of sadness passed across her face, but she made a determined effort to be cheerful again. "It must be God's will that you and Tecks Ann are coming to live with us."
Where the Broken Heart Still Beats Page 12
