Which Way Home?

by Linda Byler

  Words tumbled over one another, every one as foreign as the next. A few children came to peer at Hester like bright-eyed mice, half hiding behind their mothers’ skirts.

  The fat woman began motioning with her hands. Hester understood that she wanted her to come, so she threw back the heavy robe, which she now saw was buffalo, swung her legs over the side, and stood on her feet. The longhouse tilted to one side and spun crazily, so she held on to the pole beside her until the dizziness passed.

  The beckoning continued, so Hester followed both women to the deerskin flap hanging over the door, bending to follow them outside into the crisp, fall morning. The longhouse was built close to the banks of a creek, a slowly moving one that wound among the willows, deep and clear and quiet.

  The women motioned for her to follow until they stood on the creek’s banks where the tall, green, willow branches swept the earth like giant dusters, swaying slowly in the shivery little breeze. Hester watched suspiciously as they urged her with their hands to bathe in the creek. The fat woman motioned to the east where the sun had already risen, then to Hester to remove her deerskin dress.

  “No. No.”

  Hester shook her head, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She had never undressed for anyone to see. Once a month—more often in summer—she and her sisters and brothers had bathed discreetly one by one in the great agate tub behind a heavy blanket in the farm house, all using the same scalding hot water. They had always been taught that bodies were to be covered, from their necklines to the soles of their feet. It was shameful to see even a bare ankle exposed.

  The fat woman’s eyes glittered with anger. She spoke to the younger one, who made more motions for Hester to bathe in the creek, pointing to the sun.

  Why the sun? Suddenly it dawned on Hester that they wanted her to bathe each morning. Surely not. She refused again, shaking her head with even more conviction.

  With lightning speed, they reached for her in one motion, lifted her and swung her down the bank. Hester felt the rough scrape of the willows before the cold waters of the creek washed over her. She had never been underwater before. Creek water filled her nose and her mouth and poured down her throat. Instinctively, she flailed her legs and arms as she propelled herself to the surface, her mouth opening, gasping, and gurgling, before she felt herself slide under the water again.

  There was a fire in her chest as her lungs strained for oxygen. The muddy water, churned up by her struggling, filled her nostrils. Again, she rose to the surface, desperately sucking in air, only to choke and gag on the creek water.

  She had heard about going under a third time, heard enough about people drowning. She lunged once more, kicking out with her feet, her arms slapping at the water that threatened her life.

  One toe hit a stone. She threw herself in the direction of it, found a toehold, and then another. Gasping, with water streaming from her nose and mouth, she lifted her face above the surface of the water, grabbed the life-saving branches of the willow tree, and hung on with an iron grip.

  But when she floundered up the wet, slippery bank and heard the women’s raucous laugh like mocking crows, anger consumed her. She had almost drowned in that cold creek, and there they were, slapping their knees, bent over with the force of their scornful laughter.

  Lowering her head, with her breath coming in short forceful bursts, Hester threw herself, catching the fat woman by surprise. A powerful cuff sent her wobbling sideways down the slippery bank and into the creek. The younger woman was prepared, but Hester grabbed her by her shoulders, easily overpowered her, then rolled her down the muddy bank after the other one.

  She stood, breathing hard, her feet planted apart, feeling more alive than she ever had. Perhaps it was the near-drowning, perhaps it was fear, but she shivered with her newfound power. All of her life someone had ruled over her, bent her will to their own, including her brothers, Noah and Isaac. Once, when they had fought to gather the most walnuts, Hester had gotten angry. She kicked Noah’s bucket over, scattering all the walnuts into the tall grass. He had wrestled her to the ground, held her hands behind her back, and cuffed a sound blow to her shoulder. She bit his hand. Surprised, he yelped, then looked at her as she raised herself from the ground, her eyes flashing dark fire.

  In his eyes was an expression close to pride, or was it admiration? It was a new light. He had walked away, and things were never the same between them after that. It was as if he practiced the Amish way of shunning her, then, which often bound her to a great and stifling sorrow.

  Now she watched as the two women sliced expertly through the water like large, dark fish, scrambled out, and came steadily toward her. Hester stood firm, her hands curled into fists, ready to roll them down the bank another time. But they were laughing. They punched her arms playfully, flexed their own muscles, stroked her hair, and made a fuss about her face, her strength, lowering and raising their eyebrows as they garbled away in the foreign tongue.

  They took her into the longhouse, dried her, and then threw woolen blankets about her shoulders. They cooked corn cakes on a thick, flat stone and brought her meaty stew, steaming hot, in a maize-colored gourd. They hung around as she searched for a spoon or a fork, all the while making motions for her to eat.

  Gingerly, with one thumb and forefinger, she fished out a portion of dark meat, her fingers burning. Quickly, she deposited it into her mouth, her lips an O, as she breathed in and out to cool it. She nodded, smiled, and licked her fingers, which brought a happy shout from the women.

  The meat was rich and salty. Eagerly, she grabbed another chunk, cooled it, and chewed hungrily. The corn cake tasted like unsalted mush, which it was, she reasoned. She dipped it into the stew, which brought more happy shouts of approval.

  She guessed she was a hero now, or a princess, the way the children adored her, touching her face and her arms like inquisitive little chipmunks, and every bit as cute.

  A bright-eyed papoose hung from its cradleboard securely fastened to the supporting pole along the bunks. Hester wanted to free him from the confines of the leather rope that bound him to the flat board so she could cuddle and hold him the way she had held Kate’s babies. She knew it was the Indian way to keep them confined till they were seven or eight months old.

  The men came into the longhouse, their height and powerful builds frightening. She had never seen a man without a shirt, so she kept her eyes downcast to the earth floor. A conversation ensued, the fat woman flapping her hands, pointing, and finally laughing. Bright, flat eyes focused on her.

  She could not know how perfectly beautiful she appeared in the half-light of the longhouse. More than one of the men watched her, already planning a marriage ceremony in their hearts. One of the older ones could speak passable English. He squatted by her side. She turned her eyes to him, finding his black eyes expressionless, his nose hawkish, his black hair greased and tied back with braided thongs of rawhide. She did not look at his bare shoulders or his chest, it was too shameful.

  “I Naw-A-Te.”

  Hester nodded, then said, quietly, “Hester Zug.”

  “You come?” He waved his arm, questioning her whereabouts.

  “Berks County Amish settlement.”

  He lowered his fine eyebrows and closed his eyes as if trying to remember, then nodded slowly. “You live here with us? No?”

  Hester kept her eyes lowered, shrugging her shoulders.

  “We are the Conestoga. The last of the red man in Lancaster. All our brothers have gone west.” He threw his arm disdainfully in that direction, as if the west was a loathsome destination.

  “We stay. Conestoga our water. We are here. Mine.”

  Hester nodded. She understood his need to portray the ownership of this allotted space. She knew the Indians were constantly driven west as settlers poured into this region of Lancaster.

  In the waning autumn, Hester stayed with the Conestoga Indians on the banks of the sleepy creek named for them. The days were golden and filled with light, th
e dusty air alive with the sounds of rasping black crickets. Brown grasshoppers catapulted themselves from the tall grasses as her feet approached.

  She helped harvest the Three Sisters—corn, beans, and squash—in the vast garden. She loved the work, falling easily into the steady rhythm of the season, reminding her of harvest at home on the farm.

  She became accustomed to her early-morning bath in the cold waters of the Conestoga. It was such a new and unusual ritual, but now one she relished, submerging herself in the invigorating waters before starting her day. She found the term “dreckichy Indians” to be quite untrue. They were not unclean, the way she had believed them to be. In fact, the infrequent bathing done in Amish homes was likely less clean, in spite of the Indians’ earthen floor and the skins.

  She learned to scrape and dry buffalo, deer, and mountain lion skins. At first she had found it a revolting chore—the stench overpowering—but she kept on scraping with a flat, sharp piece of limestone and eventually, got used to the smell.

  The wild animals sustained the tribe. They were their clothing, their food, their tools. The large shoulder blade of the buffalo was lashed to a straight branch with willow bark, which functioned as a sturdy shovel, turning soil in the garden. The smaller shoulder bone of the deer was turned into a hoe in much the same way.

  Hester marveled at the ingenuity of these people. And when the golden days of autumn turned into the bitter winds of November, she was grateful for the shelter of the longhouse.

  CHAPTER 5

  WHEN ONLY A FEW CRISP, BROWN LEAVES REmained on the oak trees, the air turned into a wet cold that penetrated the skins she wore as she went about her work. Hester knew snow was not far away, so she hurried, scraping the buffalo hide stretched on the upright frame on the lee side of the longhouse.

  The men had been on a successful hunt, ensuring food for the coming winter months. A celebration of dancing and eating had followed, the children alive with renewed energy and joy, waving the bean-filled gourds gleefully.

  Now the women must hustle. The snows were hovering over them, spurring them into action, or at least those who were willing to perform their assigned duty.

  The fat woman was named Clover, in English. They all had Indian names in three syllables. When Hester couldn’t pronounce some of them, Naw-A-Te gave her their English names.

  A young woman named Beaver, who Hester imagined to be about her own age, did not enjoy work of any kind, wandering off or shirking her duties whenever she could. Today Beaver was cold, cross, and lazier than usual. She cowered beneath two woolen blankets, her teeth chattering, her eyes boldly challenging the older women to do something about her lack of working.

  Soon jabbering arose. Clover walked over, carrying her large, round form like a barrel on her stocky legs, her face like a thundercloud. When she lowered her face directly in front of Beaver, a tirade followed, finished by a smart thump on the side of her head. Beaver fell sideways, sent up a heart-rending yowl, and then became silent.

  Hester shifted the sharp limestone to her left hand and kept on scraping the white membranes away from the buffalo skin. She glanced sideways at Beaver, who lay perfectly still. After a while, Hester could see she was sound asleep.

  A younger woman, named Otter Run, came over to Beaver, crouched in front of her, then put the back of her hand to Beaver’s forehead. She jumped back and began an excited tirade of words to Clover, who immediately laid her palm on Beaver’s cheek. “I, yi, yi, yi, yi!” she yipped shrilly.

  Together, they bundled Beaver off into the longhouse, put her to bed, and returned to the chore that needed to be finished before the snow began to come from the east, driven hard by the first icy blast of winter.

  Clover did everything she could, but Beaver became deathly ill, her fever spiking in the evening until she writhed and gabbled, pointing to the hallucinations that tormented her. They covered her with heavy woolen coverlets they had received from the settlers, traded with the precious wampum, and still her teeth chattered from the cold. Sometimes she flung the covers from her miserable body until she shivered from the cold yet again.

  Hester desperately longed for her book of Indian remedies. She could see these Conestogas did not have the knowledge and wisdom of the old Indian woman of the forest in Berks County. They danced around Beaver and shook various rattles and gourds to drive away evil spirits. They concocted many different herbs with vegetables and meat dishes and brewed teas, but nothing seemed to help.

  They allowed Hester to try plasters made from onion, mustard, and wild garlic, which seemed to soothe her rasping cough. When angry red pustules appeared on Beaver’s feverish skin, Hester knew what was wrong but kept the knowledge to herself. When the pustules turned yellow with pus, she bathed the thin form with a mixture of warm water and soothing spearmint.

  Hester lay awake when the young child Corn Mouse came down with the same symptoms. She had to do something. She rose from her sleeping bunk and woke Naw-A-Te by shaking his heavy body relentlessly. He followed her past the sleeping tribe, through the flap of deerskin that served as a door.

  The thin layer of snow dusted the earth the way Kate used to dust her cakes with granulated sugar. A sliver of white moon hung in the cold, black sky, surrounded by the blinking stars of early winter. Hester’s breath was a white vapor as she spoke. “Naw-A-Te, you must bring a doctor. The little one has the same disease as Beaver. It is smallpox. They will die.”

  For a long time, Naw-A-Te remained as still as stone, his face shadowed by the night and the waning moon. Straight and tall, unhurried, he stood. Finally he spoke. “When all else fails, we go back to the Creator. We return to the earth from which we were made.” He remained standing, his face in the shadows.

  A thin wisp of woodsmoke curled from the hole in the rounded roof of the longhouse. Across the frosty lowland, a screech owl sent out its high rattling sound. It was answered by another.

  Hester spoke. “I have heard of the smallpox. Indians die. It is given to them from the white people.”

  Again, Naw-A-Te remained mute. Hester watched his face. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “Which is worse? To die from the sickness, or to be driven from our land by the white people? The time is coming.”

  Hester spread her hands. “But you have to do something. Many will die,” Hester cried. “They will die soon.”

  Naw-A-Te grabbed her shoulders roughly. The move was so sudden, his fingers digging into her arms so powerfully, she gasped and turned her face away, thinking he meant harm to her.

  Slowly, his grip lessened, becoming tender. The tall Indian gently drew her against him. Hester heard the beating of his great, stout heart beneath her cheek. The deerskin he was wearing was soft and pliant. She was strangely moved by this gesture. She felt bound to him by a kinship, a bloodline that spoke the same language.

  “It is well. It is good you are here.”

  Hester stayed very still.

  “We are the few ones. They will not let us live. Soon they will kill us. Or drive us away.”

  Hester drew back. “But you don’t know!” she cried.

  “I know. My heart knows.”

  Sadness so thick it choked her crept into her soul, and she bent her head and wept. She cried for the Indians, for their ways that would eventually be lost. She cried for the unfairness of life itself. A small part of her railed against God for allowing these two cultures to meet in this blessed, rich land, completely unable to exist side by side.

  The white man’s goals were the opposite of the red man’s—to clear the forest, cultivate the land, grow in knowledge, invent new things, while constantly moving forward for wealth and earthly gain.

  The Indians were content to roam the forest, holding the trees and animals sacred, believing that they were given to them by the Creator. They did not understand the passion for wealth and power, the greed to own land. They fanned their fires with the wing of a wild turkey for hundreds of years. They grew corn, beans, and squash, content with the earth’
s gifts. If a week or a month went by in sunshine, and the grass grew brown with drought, they watered the corn, but made no effort to innovate or change the course of nature. For it was inseparable from the Creator.

  When Naw-A-Te spoke softly, Hester listened. “You come to us with your beauty. You will live. The Creator has made you. The white man nurtured you as a small baby. Now he has a plan for you.” Hester stayed very still.

  They returned to the longhouse and their own bunks, each falling asleep, comforted in the still, frosty night.

  Hester tended to the sick all that winter. Beaver died late one night with Hester holding her thin, cold hand. The ceremony for the dead was performed, a foreign thing, the spirits and animals conveying Beaver’s spirit to the Creator. Many of the children became ill. Mothers squabbled, the tension thick and filled with static.

  A storm blew in from the northeast. Naw-A-Te held up one hand with three fingers spread out, showing there would be three months of snow. The young braves hunted on snowshoes to replenish the meat supply, dragging in thin, starved deer. But there was plenty of dried corn and beans, dried fish, and berries.

  Often Hester walked along the Conestoga Creek, her legs encased in heavy leggings, her skirt sweeping over the snow. She filled her lungs with the fresh, cold air, watched the cardinals and chickadees flit from the snow-laden bushes and trees, and saw fish lying silent and dormant beneath the ice.

  She remembered skating on the creek in Berks County, sliding around with boundless energy after being cooped up in the stone house too long. She scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it into the air, remembering snow fights with Noah and Isaac. Lissie was too young to do much harm, but like a buzzing fly, could become bothersome, sometimes having to be dealt with by a good face-washing with snow.